


Blue on Black

by WrappedUpInLace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - War, Corporal Punishment, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Revolution, Underage Drinking, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrappedUpInLace/pseuds/WrappedUpInLace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The United States, under the rule of the enigmatic Richard Roman, is a country on the brink of revolution. Years of living in fear and subjugation has birthed a thriving anti-Roman society amongst the Proletariat all across the States. Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester's unlikely friendship is put to the test, as the world around them is thrown into unfathomable chaos.</p>
<p>(Rating and warnings will be subject to change)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calm

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to my beta - blissfullybesotted

**PART I  
The Calm**

Rays from the last of the summer sun could be seen breaking through the thickness of the leaves of the trees that would soon thin out come the late September breeze. Though Castiel Novak felt none of the warmth, only the shade of the trees and the bite of the wind that blew through to scatter dust and litter around him. Regrettably the only asylum was in the form of ‘Saints of the Sacred Heart’, a building that Castiel believed to have once been a large church with a complex of refuge buildings behind, but now worked as a school. He buries his chin into the scarf wrapped around his neck as he makes way quickly to one of the refuge buildings, which serves now as the juniors' block.

He pushes open the heavy doors making his way to his locker. The block, like every other building in States, was dull and dilapidated and covered in posters shouting praise over Richard Roman and instilling fear over the Red Army. He keeps his head down, trying to hide himself in his scarf and blazer, whilst he pulls out his schoolbooks.

“Cas!”

He doesn’t have to turn his head to know who has called him.

“Hello Dean,” he says, keeping his head in his locker.

“Some of the guys were planning on going outside the fence today. I told them I’d ask if you wanted to come along.”

“I bet they were enthused by the idea, and no, I’ll have to politely decline that invitation.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks for the attitude.”

Castiel sighs when he fails to find anything legitimate enough in his locker to keep distracting himself with. He closes the door to his locker and turns to Dean, who is leaning against the locker next to his looking at him expectantly.

“What is it Dean?”

“Nothing, just, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Nobody wants me there anyway.”

“I do.” Castiel looks up at Dean’s honest expression. “That’s why I asked you,” Dean says, before mussing Castiel’s hair.

“Dean!” Castiel protests.

“What? It’s always messy anyway.” Dean laughs as Castiel narrows his eyes, running a hand lazily through his hair. “Come grab my books with me?”

Castiel nods and follows Dean to his locker.

“What do we have?”

“Maths and English.”

“Ugh,” Dean groans. “I hate Friday mornings.”

The bell rings through the speakers, making a shrieking noise as they feedback around the school.

“Come on, Dean.”

“Okay, slow down there Peter Parker; the bell just went. Might just take my sweet time now. I’d like to see how you deal with Mr. Anderson’s late student interrogation.”

“You’d like to see me get a ruler across the back of my hands?”

“No, Cas, I meant that it’d be interesting to see how you talk yourself out of it. You know you don’t get the ruler if you can, and I’m sure you could.”

Dean closes his locker and they move off to their maths class.

“You have to come outside the fence today anyway, I have to ask you something.”

“If you’re trying to get me to break the rules that badly, a question isn’t exactly going to cut it, Dean. Why can’t you just ask me now?”

“Because I can’t. Please Cas, it’s important.”

Castiel looks to Dean, a little surprised to see the absolute seriousness in his eyes.

“Fine, but I swear if you get me in trouble… again,” he gives Dean a firm look.

Dean laughs, before patting Castiel’s shoulder.

“Winchester! Tuck that shirt in, and Novak your tie.”

They turn to the Nun.

“Yes Sister Hester,” Castiel says, bowing his head slightly.

“Mr. Winchester?”

There’s a pause where Dean just looks at the Sister with a dark look.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, exasperatedly.

“Yes Sister,” Dean near-snarls, before he haphazardly tucks in the back of his shirt with his free hand.

The Nun walks away, and Castiel swears he can see her roll her eyes at Dean’s determination.

“She’s going to belt you one day,” Castiel says, cautiously.

“That’s fine, I get enough of it already, what’s one more belt a week?”

“That’s not really the best attitude Dean.”

“No, it’s just different attitude to yours,” he says, opening the door for Castiel, before following behind.

At midday break Castiel finds himself trailing behind Dean, Benny, Ash, Adam, and Raphael. Burying himself amongst the layers of his uniform in an attempt to comfort himself from the thoughts of being caught. Dean drops behind the other guys as they make their way into the thicker trees at the back of the school complex, placing an encouraging hand on his shoulder, knowing that Castiel would never make it over the fence without his encouragement. Benny, Ash, Adam, and Raphael jump the fence first.

“You go first, Cas. You might just run back to homeroom if I go first.”

Castiel rolls his eyes before he climbs the fence, thanking his athletics for the gracefulness of the operation, as he lands softly on his feet on the other side. He turns to look at Dean across the fence, smirking at him from the other side, probably proud that he managed to get Castiel to rebel this much. Dean follows over, making much more of a show about it, before he lands next to Castiel.

They all sit down where they stand pulling their bags off of their backs. Ash opens his as Castiel opens his own, only Ash is pulling out a six-pack instead of homework.

Ash hands a beer around to everyone, a blandly packaged bottle containing overwhelmingly bitter beer.

“You want one, Castiel?”

“No, thank you,” he replies, managing a small smile.

“Considering where you work Ash, you think you could bring something other than this rationed shit,” Dean says, before taking a swig of the beer with sour look.

“I can’t bring the good stuff, you’re lucky I managed to get this out,” Ash defends.

Benny moves off to the side, lighting a rationed cigarette. Castiel looks over to the smoking teen, uncomfortably.

“Hey,” Dean, says, nudging Castiel’s arm with his own. “We’ve never been caught.”

“Obviously Dean, or you would have been expelled by now,” Castiel murmurs, eyes dancing over his English notes.

“I’m just trying to tell you, it’ll be alright.”

Castiel nods.

Dean glances around at the group. Adam and Ash are having a conversation, whilst Raphael has gone off to Benny to smoke.

“Cas,” Dean says, softly, but garnering Castiel’s attention from his work once again.

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you that thing now?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, eyeing Dean suspiciously.

Dean’s gaze skates over the others before he turns back to Castiel.

“Are you free after school today?”

Castiel’s mind pauses for a minute. Dean and Castiel have spent time together after school before, but Dean’s never made such a big deal out of asking him to hang out, even despite the world they live in now.

“Yes, I’m always free on Friday Dean, you know that.”

“Just double checking Cas, see I was wondering if I could take you somewhere?”

“Dean-”

“Just wait, I… let me finish,” he sighs. “You know I trust you Cas, a lot, and you know it’s hard to trust people, especially when you’re a Prole. My point is, where I want to take you – firstly, know that I can only take you there because I trust you as much as I do, secondly it’s really important to me that I show you. So I’m asking you Cas, can you trust me?”

Castiel is silent once again, not completely certain about the undertones of panic and desperation in Dean’s voice. He cannot believe he’s going to agree to go with Dean, but there is something in his eyes, the way he looks at Castiel; it takes him back to the moment when they were in sophomore year and Dean was begging Castiel to run away with him, and even now, after everything they have been through, Castiel is still willing to do anything Dean asks him to.

“Okay Dean, I’ll go.”

The smile Dean breaks out into could light a room, and lord knows this world needs some light.

Dean falls asleep after he finishes his beer, covering his face with one of Castiel’s discarded books. The wind through the trees makes Castiel give up trying to write his essay for English much more quickly than he thought possible. He decides to read some of the history handouts he had been given, before his afternoon of the subject. The handouts, of course, are from books written by Richard Pipes, Orlando Figes, and other more Liberal historians giving their pessimistic view of the Revolutionaries, of nineteen hundred and five to nineteen-seventeen.

Even though Castiel found himself disliking the idea of revolution after reading about the French, Chinese, American, and Russian revolutions, he could see how it was necessary. He could never express this in class however, or belting would be the very least of his worries; if you were to show even the slightest hint of revolutionary support you could be looking at juvenile hall or jail, public lashings, or public execution if persistence is shown.

It was all part of Roman’s ‘New Order Reforms’, the laws of the United States are very different now to what they were merely twenty years ago. Once a very powerful business mogul, Richard Roman saw prime opportunity to mould himself into a politician after the proxy wars in Korea and Vietnam showed promise for new radical leadership. His promises were simple and agreeable to people of the States, worried about the Red Army – ‘Safety, Thriving economy and Capitalist Utopia’. But the world Dean and Castiel grew up in is the furthest thing you could imagine from a ‘Utopia’.

The most noticeable change, besides the depreciation of everything that made up their environment, is that everyone became uniformed. School children wore a standard school uniform, blue-collar workers wore the blue and yellow jacketed overalls, and white-collar workers wore a black suit and tie or black pantsuit dependent on their sex. Generally the white-collars were the Bourgeois and the blue-collars were the Proletariat class. The Proles often couldn’t afford to put their children through school, and if they could then, like Dean, they were singled out and mistreated, and though corporal punishment was reestablished and used on both Bourgeois and Proletariat students, the Proles were punished more frequently and harshly. Dean and few of the other Proles, like Benny and Ash, were often belted for as little as answering a question wrong in class, for ‘purposely trying to put off those trying to learn’.

“We’d better head back; there’s only five minutes left,” Adam sighs, his eyes on his wristwatch.

Castiel gently pushes on Dean’s shoulder, as the others pack up and climb back over the fence. Dean wakes abruptly, the book slipping from his face to the ground when he sits back on his elbows.

“Damn it Cas,” he grunts, one hand rising to rub his eyes.

“Sorry Dean, but we only have five minutes left of break.”

“Then let me sleep five minutes longer next time,” he sighs, pulling himself up.

Castiel looks past the fence noticing that all he can see now is trees, the figures of the others gone. “The others were leaving, I just thought maybe we should go too.”

Dean makes a griping noise in the back of his throat. “I guess I just don’t want to go through the afternoon. You know Death’s just gonna pick on me.”

‘Death’ is a nickname given to Azrael Don, the elderly, yet sardonically exuberant history teacher; named aptly because of his harsh disciplines and ability to make everyone who walks through his door want to die, or want him to die. Dean is the latter.

“It’ll be fine. You just have to keep your head down and work.”

“That’s against my primary settings, I’m afraid.”

Dean stands, brushing grass from his pants, and Castiel mimics him and then moves to pick up his books.

“Hey,” Dean says, moving close to Castiel.

Castiel straightens, looking to Dean expectantly.

“You ever going to learn to properly tie that god damn tie of yours, Novak?” Dean asks, mocking an authoritative voice when he says ‘Novak’, before his hands move to adjust, tuck in and fix the only disheveled part of Castiel’s uniform.

Castiel cannot help the crease that forms between his brows as he notices the red marks and white scars that lace over Dean’s hands, and winces as he remembers some incidences where he has witnessed some of the marks being made; when Dean had been belted across the hand in front of the class, Castiel had buried his face in his books after the first tortured expression. Dean’s teeth had been gritted in an attempt to hold back the cries of pain, not giving the teacher the pleasure. After that day whenever Dean had been called to the front for the same punishment, Castiel would immediately hide his eyes.

“There, that’s better,” Dean says, looking from Castiel’s tie to his face, and instantly worry washes over his expression of fondness. “Cas, you okay?”

Castiel swallows and nods his head. “I’m fine Dean. Thank you for fixing my tie… We should get back.”

Dean nods, but the concern is still there. Even after they’ve crossed the fence and are walking back to the juniors' block. Castiel glances to Dean occasionally, seeing the same worry, until he cannot take it any longer.

“Dean, I swear, I’m fine.”

“I’m just worried,” Dean smiles, half-heartedly at best.

“I guess I would be too, if I were you, with the afternoon class, but you shouldn’t worry about me. I should be the very least of your worries. Just ignore me, I’ll only make history worse.”

“I can’t ignore you; you’re the only reason I can bear being there.”

Castiel smiles, a small lift at the corners of his mouth being all he can manage, but the sincerity isn’t lost on Dean.

The bell rings as they’re getting their books from their lockers, meeting in the hallway just outside the homeroom before heading to class.

“Did you read any of the handouts?” Castiel asks.

“Both of the Orlando Figes chapters.”

“So Mr. Don will have no problem with you right?” You’ll be able to answer any question he asks you?”

“Relatively, though I’m sure he can find something wrong with any answer I give.”

They walk into class, Mr. Don giving them a nod of acknowledgment at their arrival, before they take a seat at the back of the class – as per Dean’s request – and wait for the rest of the class to arrive. The other students chat idly, and Dean and Castiel pull out their work.

“Why do we even learn about the Russian revolution, if we’re meant to hate the Soviets so much?” Dean asks, his voice quiet.

“Because we have to know why we hate them; hence all the Figes and Pipes that we read,” Castiel explains, in an equally as hushed voice.

Once Castiel had written an essay for history comparing Richard Roman’s dictatorship’s similarities to the Romanov’s Autocracy. The idea in history is to teach ‘the Roman’s Youth’ – as they referred to the generation who grew up under his government – that the revolutionaries were vile and corrupt men hell bent on destroying all that was the Romanov rule, and that the nineteen-hundred and five, and nineteen-seventeen revolutions were pointless bloodshed on the revolutionaries’ part. The idea in Castiel’s essay had been that Roman’s government was reminiscent of the Tsarist regime.

He had gotten a B plus for that essay, given that he had used proper historical evidence and structured the essay well enough. Mr. Don had said he would have gotten an A plus if not for the fact that he had compared the States to Russia – the idea itself was ‘near-blasphemous’ as Mr. Don had put it – that was the first time that Castiel had gotten a ruler across the back of his hand. Though it wasn’t in front of a class, and he knew it was no where near as harshly smacked across his skin as it would be if he were a Prole, and today there was no mark to prove that it had happened, but it taught him a valuable lesson – the States are nothing like Russia, at least not said out loud.

The idea that in history you were taught praise of the Romanov rule, but comparing it to Roman’s government was ‘sinful’ was ridiculous; that’s why Dean had taken to calling history class hypocrisy class.

They managed to get through the afternoon without Dean being tormented too much. A few questions were asked directly for Dean to answer and then Mr. Don dissected his answer, but the ruler stayed on his desk for the entire three hours. Castiel had rolled his eyes each time Mr. Don had asked Dean a question, and unfortunately he had caught sight of one of the gestures and asked, “Do you have a problem with how I teach, Mr. Novak?” He wanted to say yes and demand an explanation for his clear discrimination of Dean and the other Proles in the class, but he had meekly shaken his head with a small “no” to accompany it. Ironically, to his thoughts, he would have been hit with a ruler if he were a Prole, instead Mr. Don just returned his attention back to Dean.

Dean looked absolutely dilapidated by the end of the lesson, his usual wide, alight green eyes were half-lidded and his footsteps heavy. When Castiel had finished getting his work from his locker and thrown his bag over his shoulder he wasn’t surprised to see Dean waiting for him against the locker opposite his. Though Castiel could still see the tiredness, he could now see eagerness beneath his self-assured smirk.

“Ready?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods. “Can we drop our bags off at home first?”

“Actually, I’m going to need you to bring yours Cas.”

He narrows his eyes. Dean’s complete inability to tell Castiel anything worried him, especially considering the arrangement seemed to be getting weirder every time it was the topic for conversation. It didn’t help that the ability to discuss anything became much more difficult past the school gates. In school there were the teachers, the nuns and the students, and generally the students couldn’t care less about any incriminating conversations you had, so given that there weren’t any teachers or nuns around you you could pretty much say anything. Outside school it was different. You can’t trust anyone you don’t already know, and passers-by could potentially get you into a lot of trouble. This made anything other than the weather instantly a discussion to listen into. This also meant that Castiel had to follow Dean to wherever they were going without a word exchanged between the two.

Dean leads him through to the Proletariat Section, being honest it wasn’t all that different from the Bourgeois Section. The buildings are still being left to weather and rot, and the streets are just eerily empty. The occasional ‘yellow jacket’ would walk past, giving Dean and Castiel a small look as they pass, it’s not a distrustful look, like the ones you would get from the Bourgeois, but a more friendly acknowledgment of their existence. Dean finally stops outside an entrance to a building, it looks just like the ones next to it, which eases Castiel’s nerves a little. Castiel looks around once more taking in his surroundings. The street is empty.

Dean opens the door after unlocking it with a key from his key ring.

“Come on Cas,” he says, with a gesture of his head inside, as he holds the door open for him.

Castiel gives Dean a sidelong look, as he steps past him and inside. Castiel takes in the place as his eyes dart from corner to corner. From where he’s standing the place looks like an entrance hall to a district court room. Dean walks in front of him and continues walking back through the hallway, until they come to a descending staircase. Castiel hesitantly follows Dean down, and he opens another door at the bottom. When they step through the door it’s like walking into a hallway to a bomb shelter with its grey stonewalls.

“Dean? Where are we going?”

Dean doesn’t answer, at least not until he’s stopped at the door at the end of the tunnel. Castiel’s beginning to worry they get lost with the amount of doors involved.

“Okay, so, Cas,” Dean says, before taking Castiel’s shoulders in his hands. Dean sighs, looking contemplative for a moment. “There are some people I want you to meet. Well- you’ll know one or two.”

“What is this place Dean?”

“It’s one of my favourite places, aside from school and that’s only because you’re there, but that’s exactly why I wanted to bring you here.” Dean purses his lips for a moment, his eyes contemplating again. “Cas, here we can just hangout; talk about whatever the fuck we want, do whatever the fuck we want. It’ll be awesome.”

“But?” Castiel asks, softly, knowing there is something Dean’s not telling him. “Tell me what this place is Dean,” he asks, more sternly this time.

“It’s Harvelle’s Roadhouse. Its just a bar, lots of Proles come here – Proles with similar ideas.”

“You mean anti-Roman ideas?”

“Yes, if you want to be specific, but that’s not all it is. Here you can just be yourself, you know? It’s nice, and I want you here.”

Castiel can swear he feels his heart flip. There is something in Dean’s words that make him stare into his eyes looking for the truth in them and still so surprised to see it there. Dean’s own eyes a flickering up and down Castiel’s face, waiting for him to say something. Castiel swallows, slowly. “What are they going to think of a Bourgeois? I mean surely they just want Proles, right?” he asks, voice low.

“You’re with me. I already told Ellen I’d drop by with you, and Ash knows as well.”

“Alright. You’ve gotten me this far,” Castiel smiles at Dean, still entranced by the look he is giving him.

Dean gives a quick nod, with a smile, before he opens the door.

“Welcome to the Roadhouse, Castiel,” Dean grins, as he ushers a hesitant Castiel inside.

The instant he’s inside the door, every eye is on him, not Dean, just Castiel. Castiel’s ears are met by music he couldn’t hear before, and guesses that this entire place is soundproofed. The music, he can recall, just barely, from his childhood, before the media became censored. ‘Rock’ he thinks the genre’s called. Just listening to it Castiel has committed a small act of treason.

As Dean closes the door behind him and moves to Castiel’s side, all the eyes of the patrons return to their respective drinks and conversations. There is a certain dark, yet inviting atmosphere about the place. The wooden walls and furniture make Castiel feel warm for the first time in a long time. Behind the bar he sees Ash drying off a few glasses and next to him is a middle-aged, brunette woman, whom Castiel assumes is Ellen, simply because she is the only female in the place, aside from a blonde girl, who being about Dean and Castiel’s age is too young to own a bar.

Dean walks over to the bar, urging Castiel to follow him. They give Ash a small smile and wave as they pass and he returns their greeting with a similar gesture. Ellen smiles as they approach.

“Ah, here they are,” she exclaims, the friendliness in her tone a welcome change from most strangers.

“Hey, Ellen, I’d like you to meet-”

“Castiel?” Ellen interrupts, reaching a hand over the bar.

“Yes,” Castiel replies, taking her hand in his, before she gives his a firm shake and then opens the bar for Dean to step through and give him a hug, which Dean returns stiffly.

“And the enigma is no more,” she smirks, looking back at Castiel. “I swear this boy never shuts up about you,” she laughs.

Dean rolls his eyes and flushes much to Castiel’s amusement, before they look back to Castiel on the other side of the bar, Dean’s tongue darts out to the lick the lower of his lips before he purses them, giving Castiel an amused look. Castiel can’t help the small smile that he gives him in return.

“You want a drink Dean?” Ash asks.

“Yeah, I’ll grab a beer, thanks Ash,” Dean replies, before he looks to Castiel. “You want something Cas?”

“No thank you,” Castiel says, with a shake of his head.

“You sure? Might help you relax a little,” Dean suggests, concern marring his once playful expression.

“What’s got you wound up Castiel?” Ellen asks, obviously having heard the exchange.

“Cas’ just a little anxious to be here, he’s a little do-gooder,” Dean replies, before Castiel has a chance to and then smirks at him, the playful look returning to his features.

“Not anymore. Dean has made sure of that,” Castiel smiles back.

Ellen laughs before shaking her head disapprovingly at Dean.

“Here Dean,” Ash says, handing Dean his beer.

“Thanks dude,” Dean smiles, swapping the beer in Ash’s hand with two crumpled one dollar notes, but that’s just how cheap rationed alcohol is.

Ellen seems to be fine with the two’s underage transaction, but that was another bi-factor of the world they lived in. Proles were likely to simply ignore the more redundant laws of the old democracy. Authority often ignored underage drinking, drug taking, prostitution, and assaults undertaken by the Proles, unless of course it was happening in a government building, such as a school.

“Well, tell you what, we haven’t had many Sanctuary Seekers lately and got a few rooms spare if you think Castiel will be more comfortable there. I’ll bring you some food and come get you when your uncle gets in,” Ellen suggests. “Sound good?”

Castiel gives Dean a hopeful look, so when Dean turns to Castiel to garner his thoughts on the suggestion, he simply nods.

“Yeah, sounds good. Which room can we take?”

“Four is free,” she smiles in response.

They both say their thanks to Ellen and Dean begins to lead the way. Past the bar there is another hallway, with six doors leading down the left-side wall, all about several meters apart.

“Dean? What is a Sanctuary Seeker?” Castiel asks, as Dean unlocks the fourth door down.

“A Prole who’s come upon hard times. Some of ‘em prefer to shack up in a church or convent, the one’s who know the Roadhouse just come here.”

Dean lets Castiel into the room first, before following and closing the door behind himself. The room itself is almost like a small motel suite. There’s a small kitchenette, a bed, a TV propped on the wall facing the bed, and a small room to the back, which Castiel supposes must be the bathroom. But it gives Castiel a small amount of his composure back. He can just pretend it’s a normal place to hang out with Dean and not an illegal underground bar, where Proles can drink cheap rationed beer and talk about how shit Dick Roman is.

Castiel watches as Dean walks across the room, places his beer on one of the bedside tables and jumps onto the bed, propping the pillows against the headboard and making himself comfortable on it before reaching for the remote and turns the TV on. Dean looks up to him from the bed.

“Stop looking like a damn lost puppy Cas, and get over here,” he grins, patting the spot next to him on the bed.

Castiel takes a moment before he steps towards the bed, dropping his bag next to it before he mimics Dean’s position.

As it turns out there are only three channels available. The first is a lottery channel, the second is a news channel, and the third is a pro-Roman propaganda channel. Dean finally decides to leave it on the news channel, after flicking between the two for a good ten minutes, and opts to turn down the volume, and Castiel finds a few handouts to read through.

This was ultimately how they spent time together. Dean would always be relaxing, if not, then asleep and Castiel would be reading. Castiel enjoys reading, especially fiction, any book that he can get his hands on that isn’t banned or censored to the point of distortion is fair game. In sophomore year, the year they began to spend their time with each other, Dean had asked Castiel about his reading and why he did so much of it, and Castiel had answered that he enjoyed it because it was an escape from the world around them. Dean had said softly a moment later that he enjoyed Vonnegut, to which Castiel had replied – who? It wasn’t until a few months later that Castiel had discovered Vonnegut’s work had been banned. This had ultimately led to Castiel asking Dean how he had gotten a hold of the author’s works and that was the first time Dean had ever spoken to Castiel about the idea of the Proletariat denizens who talked of rebelling and worked in tiny acts of rebellion.

Dean had slowly managed to get Castiel comfortable enough to talk about his, and his family’s involvement in revolutionary discussion and then even more gradually got Castiel to agree that they weren’t just talking revolution for the sake of revolution. It was hard for Castiel to admit that Dean had a point, growing up in an environment where everyone told you that Roman’s government was the epitome of greatness will leave you extremely determined not to hear otherwise, but Dean made some pretty convincing arguments and with all the fiction that he read which made his world look like hell, he slowly found himself resenting the man and the world he was always taught to love as a child.

Castiel doesn’t realise he has got lost in thought until Dean is pressing a finger to his chin to tilt his head back to the document he is reading, on Tsar Nicholas II compared to Lenin.

“You seem a little distracted Cas,” Dean chuckles.

Castiel savours the look of fondness that Dean has when he looks at him. It’s a look he sees often, but forgets to appreciate it, because he’s too busy being just as fond of Dean.

There’s a gentle knock on the door before it opens and Ellen pokes her head in.

“I thought you boys might like some sandwiches,” Ellen says, showing them the tray of finger sandwiches she has made them.

Castiel doesn’t have to turn around to know that Dean is grinning at Ellen, because she’s returning it with a satisfied smile of her own, before she places the tray between them on the bed.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, a little awkwardly.

It has taken Ellen’s presence to notice just how close he and Dean were, before they moved for her to place the tray, though she doesn’t seem to either notice or care.

“Thanks Ellen,” Dean says, also apparently oblivious to what concerns Castiel.

“That’s fine, enjoy,” she smiles, before leaving the room again.

Castiel discards his handouts and asks Dean to turn up the TV whilst they eat. Dean changes the it to the Lottery channel, and they spend the next hour or more eating the sandwiches whilst laughing at, and joking about the lottery presenter, whose eccentric way of calling out the numbers had them doubled over and clutching their stomachs with fits of laughter.

When the door to their room opens again, Dean’s uncle, Bobby, and his younger brother – four years his junior, Sam are standing in the doorway. Before they even get a chance to say hello, Sam is racing around the bed, shooting Castiel a fleeting look of confusion before he tackles Dean playfully.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean says, through his laughter, as he tackles his brother back.

“Hello Bobby,” Castiel smiles, kindly.

“Castiel,” Bobby replies, with his own version of a smile.

Dean lost his mother in a fire when he was young, and a couple of years ago his father left to serve the US army in Europe, where incidentally Castiel’s own father served. Bobby became Dean and Sam’s guardian after that, not a biological uncle, but the closest thing that they had to family. Having been to Dean’s house before, Castiel has obviously become quite a familiar face to Bobby and Sam.

When Dean finally manages to get the overgrown adolescent off of him, Sam smiles at Castiel, whilst he flattens out his uniform.

“Hey Cas. How are you?” Sam asks.

“I’m quite well, and yourself?”

“Yeah I’m fine, other than it being slightly weird you being here and all.”

Castiel smiles, he has a fairly similar feeling about being here.

They invite Castiel to stay for dinner and Castiel agrees. His cousin, Gabriel, who is technically his guardian whilst Castiel’s mother works in Washington, usually expects Castiel home late on Fridays as he’s always with Dean, or studying. Castiel would be lying if he said he wasn’t still just a little bit nervous in the Roadhouse. The patrons seem to take their time at the Roadhouse to discuss as much as they can on topics that under any other circumstance would get them arrested or killed. Dean, however, much to Castiel’s appreciation, notices his discomfort and keeps the conversation at their table to school, flashing Castiel small reassuring smiles throughout.

By the time Castiel decides he had better get back home before Gabriel starts to worry, he and Dean are sitting at a table in the bar. All of Castiel’s tension has appears to have disappeared and he is chatting and laughing with Dean whilst enjoying a beer he finally conceded to drinking.

“I’d better leave now Dean,” Castiel says, solemnly.

It was strange being in a breeding ground for incriminating exchanges, but Castiel can see why Dean loves the place, because Castiel doesn’t want to leave, not truly. Castiel realises now that the Roadhouse is quite literally the only place where he doesn’t have to walk on eggshells trying to be something the government wants him to be, rather than himself.

“Yeah, sure; I’ll come with you,” Dean says, standing and pulls his blazer back on over his shoulders.

They grab Castiel’s bag from room four before heading back to the bar and stopping at Bobby and Sam’s table.

“Hey Bobby, I’m just gonna take Cas home. I’ll meet you and Sammy back at home?”

“Alright kid, Sam and I shouldn’t be back too late either. It was good to see you Cas, be it a bit unexpected.”

Castiel gives a little laugh with his nod. “It was good to see you too, Bobby.”

“See you Cas,” Sam smiles.

“Goodbye Sam,” Castiel returns.

“Alright, alright let’s get out of here,” Dean says, taking Castiel’s shoulder.

Dean leads Castiel swiftly back onto the streets, and they begin off in the direction of Castiel’s home. By this point the sun has settled below the skyline, casting everything into darkness making the barren streets seems even more eerie.

“So, what’d you think?” Dean asks, distracting Castiel from his worries.

“It’s great Dean, honestly,” Castiel smiles, and Dean looks like he’s trying extremely hard contain his enthusiasm and ends up just grinning at him nonetheless.

“So you think you’ll go there again? With me obviously; unless you want to go on your-”

“Yes. Dean, I’ll be going back there. With you, just to clarify.”

“Awesome.”

It’s a little less than a ten-minute walk before they’re into Castiel’s neighbourhood, back in the bourgeois Section. When they come to Castiel’s home they stop outside the gate.

“So I’ll see you on Monday I guess?” Dean asks, his hand gripping at Castiel’s shoulder, smiling at him fondly once more.

“I guess.”

Dean gives his shoulder a small pat before he begins to turn.

“Dean-”

Dean turns back to him.

“What’s up?”

“I- Just, thank you, for taking me there,” Castiel says. He thinks that it has to be said, because not only has Dean shown him somewhere that he can be purely himself, but just like Dean had said earlier, just taking Castiel there shows just how much trust he has in him, and that means a lot to him. He only hopes Dean realises how much Castiel trusts him in return.

Dean chuckles, softly. “Thank you for staying Cas. I’m surprised you didn’t just take off as soon as you walked in the place.”

“You have that little faith in me Dean?” Castiel jokes.

“Well you have all my faith now, believe me.” There’s a hint of humour still threading his words, but it’s the seriousness in his tone the knocks the breath right out of Castiel, as he looks back at Dean dumbfounded. “I’ll see you on Monday Cas.”

When Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, it’s another shock, and it takes him half a minute to respond to the pleasant contact with a hesitant palm against Dean’s back; it is the first time Dean has ever hugged Castiel. When Dean pulls away Castiel is left with the deepest sense of longing as he watches Dean wave him goodbye and walk off into the night.

He goes to bed as soon as he gets in the house, saying hello to Gabriel as he passes the living room. The house Castiel lives in is fairly large, and despite it being one of the more expensive houses on the market, it’s still deteriorating like everything else that surrounds it. His room is not small, but not excessively large either. There’s a bed, a cupboard, a chest of drawers, and a desk, which he doesn’t use much for homework, but has books piled on top of it.

As he lies in bed, before he falls asleep, he thinks back to the comforting warmth of the Roadhouse and how lacking in warmth this house is. He’d probably prefer to be staying in one of the Sanctuary Seeker’s rooms, being able to laugh with Dean over lottery presenters and their ridiculous voices and comments, and just talk all night. Maybe he will ask Dean if they could, one day.


	2. The Warning

**PART II  
The Warning**

The warning comes on a Friday. Dean lazes on the bed in room four, his eyelids ever tempted to close, but every so often some propaganda ad, or Castiel coughing would pull him from drifting. He changes the channel to the news station – a channel less likely to have loud obtuse noises. Castiel doesn’t mind; he’s busy reading a novel on the causes of the First World War. The warning wakes Dean out of his daze, and Castiel’s eyes rise from his page to the screen. Dean knows the volume is low, but surely he hasn’t misheard.

“Cas, did you hear that?” Dean asks, slowly.

“You mean the reporter telling Proles to be wary in their Section over the next few days?” Castiel confirms.

“Yeah.”

“Then, yes Dean, I heard.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and reaches for the TV controller and turns the volume up. They both lean forward, listening to the reporter.

“Richard Roman’s government is encouraging all Proletariat citizens to spend as much time in the Bourgeois Section as possible, emphasizing that they have reason to believe that the Soviets plan to demonstrate power.”

The reporter repeats the warning several times before he moves on to another story.

“Please tell me this is as suspicious to you as it is to me?” Castiel asks.

“Damn right it is. What the fuck?”

Even from down the hall, they can hear that the bar area has begun to chat feverously about the warning.

“None of it makes any sense,” Castiel sighs.

That’s what Dean really appreciates about Castiel; where this warning would have gone over the head of any other Bourgeois, Castiel begun mentally analyzing each word from the first time he heard it.

“Why – if they even would – would the Soviets choose to demonstrate power on the Proletariat? Wouldn’t they demonstrate on their more potent threat, like the Bourgeois or even the Roman Government?” Castiel says. “And it’s a little suspicious that we weren’t told about how they got this information on the Soviets in the first place.”

Dean nods along, agreeing with every word, having thought the same, but feels he would be unable to word quite as eloquently as Castiel has.

“Dean?”

“Yeah Cas?”

“Can I tell you what I think?” Castiel asks, hesitantly.

“Yeah, of course; you listen to all my crap.”

Castiel gives him a look of rebuke for his turn of phrase, but Dean just smirks. Damn kid knows that Dean doesn’t think a word that comes out of Castiel’s mouth is ‘crap’.

“I think, if there is a demonstration, it’s not going to be from the Soviets, it’s going to be the Roman Government,” Castiel begins. “It’s going to be their way of keeping the Proles in fear – of the Soviets, of them – it doesn’t matter, because they know that you’re their biggest threat to challenging their power, and if you decide to revolt… they’re fucked.”

What Castiel just said hits Dean like a ton of bricks. If Castiel were to be overheard by the Police or the Order Keepers – Roman Government’s Police who specialize in treason – he would be shot on the spot, and that scared the shit out of Dean, but at the same time he’s so fucking elated that Castiel trusts him enough to say this to him, and so fucking proud of how far he’s come from the brainwashed fourteen-year-old Dean had met three years ago. He also takes a moment to admire his use of colourful language; that was definitely Dean’s fault.

Castiel looks at Dean, eyes filled with a heart-wrenching mixture of fear and hope, like somehow Castiel thought Dean might run off and turn him into the Order Keepers.

“I agree, Cas, I do. Fuck,” he breathes, raking a hand through his short hair.

Castiel exhales out his own sigh of relief, but neither of them actually relaxes at all.

“Shit Dean, you can’t tell anyone about what I just said,” Castiel says, urgently, his fingers gripping at Dean’s blazer sleeve.

“Damn it, Cas,” he says, perhaps a little too aggressively when he sees it only serves to put Castiel on more of an edge. “You think I’m stupid enough to put you in that kind of danger?”

Castiel shakes his head, before Dean rolls his eyes and pulls Castiel into his arms, something he’s found himself struggling to resist doing more than once in the time since the first, but Castiel doesn’t seem quite so stiff this time, rather seeking the comfort it offers. Dean rubs small comforting circles with his palm against Castiel’s back – a silent promise that everything Castiel ever said to him is between them.

The idea of degeneracy crosses his mind. The position the two boys were in is compromising, even Dean can see that, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit. As it stands, a same-sex relationship isn’t just looked down on, it’s illegal and to be same-sex attracted in any way is considered ‘degeneracy’ punishable by jail or specialist education centers for those under eighteen. Dean hadn’t thought about it a lot before Castiel entered his life, maybe once or twice when he found his eyes following the stride of another guy at school.

Then there was Castiel. He’s not entirely sure what prompted him to approach the Bourgeois more, the fact that he had practically gotten Dean out of a week’s worth of detention from Mr. Crowley, their headmaster, or that Dean had just been strangely compelled towards the kid. There was just something about Castiel. The closer they became, the more often Dean found himself suppressing degenerate thoughts; now was one of those times.

Dean pats Castiel’s back and pulls away. Castiel has a distant look on his face, but the embrace appears to have put him more at ease.

At dinner they don’t talk about the warning, just eat silently, listening to what other patrons have to say about the whole situation. At school on Monday it isn’t even talked about, most likely because the Bourgeois, who made up over eighty percent of the school population, couldn’t care less about a warning issued to the Proletariat.

Though if there is one thing that is different, it’s that the tension amongst the Proles is thick enough that you could cut it with a knife. When Dean jumps the fence at lunch it’s with other Proles like Benny, Ash, Jo, and Charlie; he had asked Castiel if he wanted to come, but when he had declined Dean hadn’t been surprised. He could understand that Castiel isn’t quite ready to share his anti-Roman views with anyone but Dean, just yet.

When Ash offers him a drink he refuses; he has an afternoon of physics with Mr. Andrews who had smelt the rationed alcohol on him from a mile away last time and belted him for it. He hates Monday with a passion, because it’s the only day of the week that he has his afternoon class without Castiel, who does Biology instead, and even though Dean is good at the subject, it’s simply unbearable without him.

It turns out that Charlie is thinking a lot like Castiel, and begins explaining how the entire warning is just a government conspiracy that is meant to keep the Proles downtrodden. Castiel’s talk on Friday night is immediately brought to his mind, but that’s where it stays and he simply nods along with Charlie’s words.

“Do you think they actually will do something to the Proles’ Section?” Ash asks, taking a long drink from his beer after.

“I won’t be surprised,” Charlie says, gravely.

“Notice how she says ‘won’t’ instead of ‘wouldn’t’,” Benny laughs, and Dean follows, smirking at the redhead.

“I think they will,” Ash chimes in. “Ain’t nothin’ ever stopped the Romans from fucking over the Proles.”

“I just think that if that warning were sincere, then wouldn’t they be working towards fixing the faulty air raid sirens in the Proles’ Section?” Charlie says.

Dean nods in agreement, taking a mental note to mention this to Castiel later. The air raid sirens in the Proletariat Section were about as useful at informing of potential threat as rationed beer was at getting you drunk.

He mentions this to Castiel the next time he sees him, which is in their afternoon class of English the next day. They’re sitting in the back of the class, whilst everyone discusses the thematic issues explored in Henry IV: Part I by William Shakespeare. Dean manages to whisper it to him as Mrs. Leeman turns to the blackboard.

“That’s a fair point. Does Charlie agree with us then; that it isn’t the Soviet?” Castiel whispers back quickly.

Dean nods in reply, trying to keep their actions less suspicious. Castiel gives Dean a warm smile, before changing the subject before they get caught.

On Friday Castiel is more apprehensive to come to Harvelle’s, and with fair reason. He instead asks Dean if he would like to come spend time at his house. It’s not that Dean doesn’t enjoy going to Castiel’s house – the place is quite laidback and his cousin, Gabriel, is a laugh – but Dean hates the looks he gets as he walks through Castiel’s neighbourhood. Although he can’t help but feel the atmosphere amongst the Bourgeois is so much more relaxed than the Proletariat Section currently.

When they enter Castiel’s house, Castiel makes a point to try and get up the stairs as quickly as he can.

“Hey, hey, hey Cassie! What’s the rush?” Gabriel asks, poking his head out of the living room. “Hey Dean-O.”

“Gabe,” Dean gives him a friendly smile.

“Hello Gabriel,” Castiel says, glumly. “Dean and I are just going upstairs to study.”

Gabriel wiggles his eyebrows. “Alright. You kids behave,” he says with a wink.

Dean smiles as Castiel rolls his eyes and begins up the stairs, Dean following behind.

“What was that about Cas?” Dean asks, trying to catch the heel of Castiel’s shoe with the toe of his and when he succeeds, Castiel turns to glare at him. Dean just breaks out into a grin.

“Please do not adopt his childish humour Dean,” Castiel sighs. “He is… quite embarrassing.”

Dean snorts. “Well, I like him. So don’t worry.”

Castiel eyes Dean skeptically and Dean smiles reassuringly, before Castiel falters and smiles back.

When they get to Castiel’s room they actually study; Castiel’s room lacks a TV and the neither of them knew where Gabriel stands on the topic of the Roman Government and are both afraid to test whether he’s a supporter or not by talking about something incriminating. For the most part they’re silent, getting on with work, but Dean notices that Castiel seems unfocused.

“What’s up Cas?” he asks, after about the hundredth look Castiel casts his way.

Castiel doesn’t move for a minute, silently contemplating his options, before he inches his chair to Dean’s, leaning in to fill the rest of the gap between them.

“I’m just worried,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“About what?” Dean asks, matching Castiel’s volume.

“You Dean,” he sighs, swallowing. “I mean what if the warning proves true? There’s a very real chance I might lose you. Whether it’s a Soviet attack or not.”

Dean has to contemplate his next words very carefully, because Castiel has a point, one that Dean himself hasn’t even thought about and he knows that if it were the Bourgeois Section that was under threat he would be constantly thinking about Castiel’s safety.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, not entirely believing the words, but making damn sure they sound believable from Castiel’s point of view. “Chances are that I’ll be underground at Harvelle’s or at school if it does happen.”

Castiel doesn’t appear satisfied by the response.

“Can you promise me one thing?” Castiel asks, finally.

“Yeah, sure. Anything.”

“You and Sam need to spend as much time in the Bourgeois Section as possible,” he says, his eyes boring into Dean’s. “If you have no where to go, then… come here.”

Dean nods. He has no arguments with that arrangement.

“Good,” Castiel finishes, as if finalizing an official negotiation.

“Good,” Dean sighs. “Now, get back to your damn work Mr. Side-glance.”

Castiel, at least appears sated on the topic, but what Castiel has said opens a Pandora’s box in his mind, which he only allows himself to explore as he walks home from the Bourgeois’ house.

For too many years the threat of demonstrations, be it Soviet or not, has been possible, but no one has ever truly entertained the idea that something would actually happen to themselves. Every three to five years there would be some kind of demonstration. Bombs and air raids would cause discussions amongst the Proles, but the demonstrations are always either along the East or the West coasts of the States. More importantly, Dean’s never had to think too hard about the safety of his friends.

The thoughts lead him to many restless nights that have him waking from nightmares, his skin covered with sweat. Sam, Bobby, Benny, Charlie, Ellen, and Jo – he’s woken from dreams where each of them has been lost in a demonstration, sometimes he dreams that he loses all of them and he wakes each time clutching the fabric of his shirt near his heart as it aches through each rapid beat. He tries to calm himself with the same platitude he told Castiel, but he thinks of Bobby, the man who stepped up to father the Winchester boys when they had no one, he worked day-in day-out in the garages in the Proletariat industrial zone, only sheltered from the threats when he was at Harvelle’s.

Apparently everyone notices that he seems distracted at school, and in the next week he gets so many rulers across his hands and across his cheek, that both seem infinitely reddened. He stays quiet though, refusing to let any of his friends and family start worrying about the demonstrations the way he is – a few red marks are worth not having his friends go through what he is, especially when he’s so used to the treatment. In time Castiel begins to refocus Dean on his work whenever his mind wanders, to save him from the punishments that the teachers are always so willing to hand out to distracted Proles.

Castiel had also begun insisting that Dean come to the library after school, and even though he used to avoid the place, he actually finds himself enjoying the atmosphere. Dean and Castiel have all but claimed a table right up the back of the large library, nearby large windows and Dean could turn and watch the heavy rain that fell so often at this time of the year, and for a few hours Dean could forget about the demonstrations and read through history books – the only reason Dean had to worry during these times was he and Castiel laughing too hard; on Monday they had been reading about Lenin when Dean had asked if Lenin was actually ever around when anything important happened, Castiel had let out the funniest laugh Dean had ever heard, which sent Dean into hysterics to the point where he nearly cried. Castiel had begun laughing infectiously, and buried his face into the chest of Dean’s blazer. Another time Dean had found Rasputin’s beard incredibly impressive, much to Castiel’s amusement, both times Sister Rachel, one of the Sisters in the library, had told them to quiet down or they would be kicked out.

Castiel had taught him more about the Russian revolution than Mr. Don had all semester, mainly because he would quietly discuss the Marxist perspectives of the event, and even though he couldn’t use the information in exams, he still valued it more than Castiel could ever comprehend.

Dean would leave classes with Castiel feeling guilty as hell, because lately Castiel has taken more risks, in history class especially, to tell Dean something that would get him belted if overheard, and Dean knew it was selfish, but he enjoyed Castiel rebelling way too much to suggest that he stop. Dean thought that perhaps Castiel knew that Dean was encouraging it, especially when Dean begun asking questions about anti-Roman or pro-Revolutionary issues in class. Whenever Castiel asked about the behaviour Dean would shrug and reassure Castiel that “they wouldn’t get caught,” – and they wouldn’t, and even in the off chance that they did, Dean would get punished for it, and he was okay with that, even if Castiel wasn’t.

On Friday, Castiel agrees to jump the fence, only because there are other Bourgeois also coming, including Raphael and another girl, Lisa, with whom Dean had once been romantically involved. Most of the particularly large group stay together, however Benny had moved away to smoke as usual, and Dean and Castiel found a large oak tree about ten feet away from the others to lean against as they read over their history handouts before class.

“So Lenin promises the people –”

“Peace, land, and Bread,” Castiel finishes.

“After the February Revolution.”

“Correct.”

“So that would mean… that the Russian people were at war, needed rights to their land, and needed food.”

“Well they were at war, being the First World War, all the Land was owned by the Tsarist government and then the Provisional government, and yes, the people suffered through a long famine during the war.”

Across the States the Proletariat make up roughly sixty-two percent of the population, thirty-five percent are Bourgeois, and the rest are the Aristocracy, excluding the Parliamentary members of the Roman government. Assuming that the Proletariats are as annoyed as each other and that they discussed it with each other, there was a very real possibility that they could stage a revolt.

“What caused the Revolution?” Dean asks.

“Well it cannot be really be brought down to one factor, but I personally think that it was a collective discontentment of the Peasants and Proletarians.”

“Yeah, me too.”

There isn’t exactly peasantry in the States, but most of the Proletariat lived on the bare minimum, which is why Dean considers himself lucky that he wasn’t in that situation. There is a lot of homelessness amongst the Proles, which is why places like Harvelle’s have the Sanctuary Seeker rooms.

“But there’s always a catalyst,” Castiel interrupts his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“There is always something that makes all that tension explode into revolutionary action,” Castiel explains. “For Russia the catalyst was the First World War, for France it was the Seven Years War.”

“Oh, so they were an accelerant for the final revolution?”

“Yes,” Castiel swallows and looks over to the group ten feet away, who are idly chatting. “We have the discontent of the masses, we have an ongoing war with the Soviets, no right to ownership, and well over half of the Proletariat struggle to feed their families, ultimately all you’re waiting for is a catalyst,” Castiel whispers, his eyes imploring Dean to be on the same thought track.

“The Demonstration.”

Castiel agrees to come back to Harvelle’s with him again for the first time in two weeks, but only after Dean convinces him that they will be fine there. The conversations amongst the Proles have become more directional since the warning and the amount of patrons that were in the building has increased noticeably. The warning, after all, had given them topics to discuss which could only safely be discussed in Harvelle’s and the other rare places like it.

They head straight to room four after weeks of it being unused by any potential Sanctuary Seekers. They don’t turn on the TV this time and Castiel doesn’t get any work out from his bag. They simply sit on the bed talking about the impending revolt which they had concluded would be inevitable if there was a demonstration in there nearfuture.

Castiel agrees to stay for dinner, and Ellen brings the food into the room.

“I don’t usually have guests eating in the Seekers’ rooms, but the bar’s so full tonight,” she says, putting the tray of food between them.

“Thanks Ellen,” Dean smiles.

“Thank you,” Castiel follows.

Ellen just gives them both a warm smile before she leaves the room again.

The TV hums softly in the background as they eat the food Ellen brought them. The news channel would have the reporters repeat the warning three to four times every hour, and every time they did Castiel would swallow and turn his head away, until Dean decides to change the channel to the lottery channel – whose presenters usually gave them both a good laugh. Castiel looks up at the screen as the presenter announces a drawn number.

“Do you enter the lotteries?” he asks, softly.

“No,” Dean says, hesitantly, “but Bobby does, and I think Ellen does as well.”

Castiel goes silent again, but he looks like he’s got more to say on the issue, but doesn’t want to speak it. So Dean prompts him.

“Why?”

“No reason,” he sighs.

“Spit it out, Novak,” Dean laughs, shoving Castiel’s shoulder.

“Well have you ever known someone who has won? Anything at all?”

Dean thinks about all of the Proletariat families he knows that enter the lottery, where winnings could supposedly be as low as a single dollar to as high as one million, and yet he cannot remember any of them winning a damn thing.

“No.”

Castiel looks like he’s biting at his cheek as he looks off at a random corner of the room, deep in thought. Dean just waits, expectantly, for Castiel to say something else. When nearly five minutes pass he rolls his eyes.

“Cas,” he says, waving his hand in front of his thoughtful eyes.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me what you’re thinking?”

“Oh, well… I was just thinking that maybe nobody ever wins,” he starts, “maybe it’s just a distraction, another entertainment, false hope.”

“Oh,” is all Dean can manage. The rationality in Castiel’s words makes Dean feel a little stupid for not realizing it sooner. “Yeah, that makes sense. They don’t give us much to preoccupy ourselves with,” he says, softly flicking through the three channels that are offered.

“The money they get from ticket sales probably goes right into the Romans’ pockets.”

Dean nods, but doesn’t comment. They fall back into a comfortable silence as the warning is issued once more on the news channel.

Castiel is gone by the time Bobby and Sam make it to Harvelle’s – Sam runs into the room, clearly still bubbling with energy from his afternoon practice at his football club; Sam has always been more into sports than Dean, who preferred working on preserving the old muscle cars that peppered Bobby’s car yard in the urban districts – in particular his father’s sixty-seven Chevrolet Impala, which his father had left with Bobby before he left. When Dean turned sixteen Bobby gave her to Dean. He had handed Dean the keys and with a firm pat on his back he had said, “It’s what your daddy would want for her.”

“Sammy,” he gasps, as the fourteen year-old winds him with a hug. “How about a shower first, kid?”

Dean gives Bobby a smile as he ruffles Sam’s ever-growing locks and Bobby returns it, but ever since the warning there is always an air of worry lacing his expression.

It was both a relief and an annoyance that Sam’s innocence kept him ignorant of what impending disaster loomed over the Proles, but mostly Dean was thankful that Sam didn’t have to care; briefly Dean remembers a Thomas Gray quote Castiel had told him – ‘ignorance is bliss.’ Gray’s poetry was of course incredibly hard to come by, unless you knew where to look, but Castiel said that his mother used to recite poetry she had known from when she was a child.

Bobby leaves Sam with Dean in room four as he goes up to the bar to speak with Ellen. Dean helps Sam with his maths homework, whilst the TV is on low in the background.

“Was Castiel here today?” Sam asks, looking up from his maths textbook.

“Yeah, he was,” Dean smiles.           

“I thought so, I could smell his perfume.”

Dean chuckles. “It’s aftershave, Sammy, cause, you know, us men have to shave.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he is smiling. “Alright, I can smell his _aftershave_ then. Where’d he go?”

“Home.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him in a while, is he okay?”

Dean smirks quietly at his brother’s compassion, it was so similar to their mother’s and Sam hadn’t even really gotten a chance to experience that.

“Cas’ fine, he’s just a bit busy being the nerd he is.”

Sam hits Dean’s arm. “Cas is nice.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s a nice nerd,” Dean grins.

Sam rolls his eyes again, hiding his smile, and goes back to his maths book.

Bobby comes to get them at about nine.

“Let’s get the kid home,” he says, smiling at the two boys.

They both pull themselves up from the bed. Dean turns off the TV and smoothes down the bed sheets as Sam packs his bag. They all wave Ellen, Jo and Ash goodbye as they pass through the bar. Dean sits in the passenger seat of Bobby’s pickup truck, watching the buildings pass them by.

“So Ellen told me Cas was over,” Bobby murmurs, trying to not wake a sleeping Sam in the back.

Dean turns to him and confirms the information with a nod.

“It’s been a while since he’s been at the Roadhouse.”

“It has to do with the warning,” Dean mumbles.

“The kid really think the Soviets are going to attack?”

Dean stays silent for a moment, deciding that Bobby really wouldn’t give a shit about Castiel’s current anti-Roman stance; after all, Bobby has said many times that Castiel has had a good influence on Dean and Dean doesn’t think that Bobby would ever say anything to anyone if it might put Castiel in danger.

“No, he thinks the Roman government will,” he says, tentatively.

“Ah, the bourgeois growin’ brains eh?”

“Some are, I think.”

“Well good to know you’re corrupting their youth, boy,” Bobby jokes.

“I haven’t corrupted him,” Dean snorts.

“Not yet, eh?”

Dean rolls his eyes in good humour and returns his gaze out the window, counting the few effective streetlights they pass.

Their home is cozy on the inside; in fact from its outside appearance it’s a stark contrast. Nothing on the inside is pristine clean like in Castiel’s house, but that was the way Bobby kept it and the way the Winchester boys liked it. Most surfaces in the house were covered in books, most of which were all legal, though there were a few illicit pieces of literature here and there.

Dean is happy here; he gets his own room and enjoys that he can sit in the lounge room and read any one of the books lying around, next to the warmth of the fireplace, whilst Bobby watches the TV.

Dean’s room, much like the rest of the house, is fairly messy; his bookcase is filled with textbooks and a few pieces of literature that he enjoyed reading and decided on keeping, because Bobby wouldn’t even notice. Among the books were authors like Mark Twain and George Orwell alongside his favourite author, Kurt Vonnegut’s, _‘Cats Cradle’_ and _‘Slaughterhouse Five’,_ both of which were illegally distributed amongst the underground Proletariat.

His desk, on the other hand, is covered in tools and stray car parts that he had no idea anymore to which cars they belonged. Sometimes he likes to use the spare parts to make things and improve objects around the house. When he was younger he used to make firecrackers and flares to prank Jo, who used to live next door; though he hasn’t made anything explosive in a long time.

He enjoys mechanics; he understands mechanics. He will most likely end up doing for the rest of his life. Though thinking of the rest of his life right now seems like an optimistic prospect, and it makes him uneasy – a prelude to another restless night.


	3. The Storm

**PART III  
The Storm**

School has always been tedious at best for Castiel; he perhaps doesn’t take is quite as seriously as he should, but he always gets the results that the teachers expect from him. As much as he hates the way that his humanities subjects are taught, he is very good at making the teachers believe that he loves it. Until recently he has never even entertained the idea of saying or writing anything that would be politically incorrect, but he has now, many times since the warning, and Dean encouraged it.

When Castiel had first met Dean, it was in their first year at _Saints of the Sacred Heart_. It had been in the freshman block and the Principal had come in to observe the new students; he had already addressed them in an assembly at the start of the year, but appeared to think it was necessary to come and see them. Mr. Crowley was a suave, sharply-dressed Englishman, but adhered incredibly strictly to Roman’s regime, which means that Bourgeois were generally treated magnitudes better than Proles, but still were harshly dealt with, which only meant the Proles were equal to dirt. Castiel had watched as the principle snagged his foot on the strap of a Prole boy’s bag, only just managing not fall.

“This your bag, boy?” Crowley had spat, his eyes fiercely staring the freshman down.

It had been a split-second decision, but Castiel knew ultimately that he would get in less trouble than the Prole.

“I’m sorry sir,” he says, hurrying over to the bag and throwing it over his shoulder, “it’s mine.”

The Prole and Crowley had given Castiel their own unique looks of questioning.

“Well then, next time – Don’t bloody leave lying around!” the principle had yelled, before walking off with a roll of his eyes, at the incompetence of the freshmen.

“Why did you do that?” the Prole asked, his green eyes wide.

“Well, we both know I would have gotten in less trouble,” he said, taking the bag off his shoulder and handing it to the Prole.

“Still, I mean, you don’t even know me dude. You just do that out of the kindness of your heart?”

“You don’t think you deserve kindness?”

“I’ve just learnt not to expect it… thank you though-”

“Castiel.”

“Thanks, Castiel,” he had smirked. “I’m Dean.”

After that day Dean had sought out Castiel’s company. At first it had been strange; Bourgeois stuck with other Bourgeois and Proles stuck with other Proles. Their friendship had at first made people give them strange looks, but after two years people have accepted their unusual friendship. There was no one alive, other than Gabriel, that Castiel trusted more than Dean.

Though lately it seems that his company, in class at least, makes him tense. Too many times since the warning Castiel has come extremely close to saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and it was always due to Dean’s prompting. He didn’t truly believe that Dean was deliberately trying to get him into trouble, even though it would initially cross his mind, and he always gave Dean looks of irritation at the situations; at least Dean always has the mind to look apologetic.

Castiel has decided that even with the looming threat of the demonstrations, that he enjoyed the atmosphere of the Roadhouse too much to stay away, and he still immensely enjoyed the time he and Dean spent together there. Ellen is always kind enough to make him dinner when he’s over, and Dean always shouts him a beer, which he always protests, before accepting that Dean won’t take no for answer.

It’s the first time Castiel has been to the Harvelle’s on a day that isn’t Friday. It’s a Monday and at lunch Dean had been complaining, because it was his only day that he didn’t have an afternoon lesson with Castiel, and Castiel had asked if he was going to the Roadhouse after school. Dean, of course, had been ecstatic when Castiel had suggested he join him, and now they were in room four, watching the lottery channel and doing work.

“You gonna have your tie done correctly for school tomorrow?” Dean asks with an amused tone, interrupting Castiel’s train of thought, as he does his biology homework.

“What?” he asks, looking up at Dean and then down at his tie. “Oh, probably not.” 

“Do you even know how to tie them right?”

Castiel purses his lips before he shakes his head.

“Here let me show you,” Dean says, pulling his own tie from around his neck and off.

Castiel puts his books down next to him and focuses on Dean.

“You watching?”

Castiel nods and Dean begins to tie his tie. He watches carefully, taking mental notes as Dean wraps one end of the tie around the other twice, before tucking it through the loops it creates. He finishes by pulling the neat tie up around his neck and popping the shirt collar back over it.

“Now you try.”

Castiel pulls his tie off from around his neck, and imitates what Dean has just shown him, his eyes locked on Dean’s as he watches him, amused. Castiel finishes and puts his shirt collar down again.

“Is it good?” he asks.

Dean smirks, before he chuckles lightly.

“It’s great Cas, but it’s back-to-front,” he smiles.

“Oh,” Castiel huffs out a small laugh.

Dean reaches over to Castiel’s tie, still smiling and undoes his work, before retying it immaculately, and facing the correct direction. Dean is still smiling fondly at him as he pulls the tie around his neck and pulls the collar over it. His hands linger there for a moment, and Castiel swallows. Dean lifts his hand and gently chucks Castiel under the chin. Dean focuses back on his work, making a passing comment about how Castiel better have his done right tomorrow, and leaving Castiel’s heart beating hard and fast.

He waits until Bobby and Sam come to the Roadhouse to leave Dean, saying his goodbyes before he heads home. When he arrives home Gabriel is still out. He makes himself a coffee, which he only drinks when he really needs to stay awake, as he hates the taste of the rationed coffee. He had found himself distracted from his work after Dean had fixed his tie and has to finish it before he goes to bed.

Gabriel arrives back home, just as Castiel is getting ready for bed.

“Hey, Castiel. I missed you earlier,” Gabriel says, in his usual playful tone, making himself a coffee.

“You were home?”

“Yeah, around five, and you weren’t around, so I went out with Kali for dinner. Where were you?”

“I was with Dean in the library.”

“Oh, of course. You’ve been spending a lot of time with Dean lately, haven’t you?”

“Haven’t I always?” Castiel asks, filling a glass with water.

“Fair point there.”

Gabriel had never really questioned Castiel and Dean’s odd friendship, which Castiel had found refreshing.

“Well, I’m going to bed.”

“Alright, goodnight, Cassie.”

“Goodnight, Gabriel,” Castiel says.

Castiel tries to get past Gabriel, but Gabriel grabs him, and kisses his forehead before he can escape. Castiel wriggles out of his hold, laughing.

“Love you, too,” Gabriel yells, humorously after Castiel as he heads upstairs, skipping two steps at a time.

Castiel is finding sleep more solacing lately. With his mind so riddled with fear, it did take agonizingly long for his mind to just switch off, but the sleep was always deep when it came. It comes easier tonight; Dean’s smile is still fresh in his mind and it pushes his usual anxious thoughts aside. When he wakes, he’s more refreshed than he’s felt in weeks, and finds his body isn’t protesting getting out of bed as it usually does.

At school he has learnt to hate his biology classes. He is good at it, great even, but he misses Dean, even if it’s only one class. Also he has to endure sitting next to Uriel staring over his shoulder, pretending to sneer pretentiously down at Castiel’s work, even though Castiel knows that Uriel copies his notes mere minutes later.

Castiel is quick to find his seat next to Dean when he enters their afternoon English class. Castiel knows that Dean went over the fence today, he had invited Castiel, but he didn’t much feel like leaving the juniors' block today, even if it is only minutely warmer than outside. Dean’s uniform is damp from the light rain that was falling during their lunch break, and there is a small tear in his shirt, which Castiel figures is from climbing the fence.

“You might want to put on your blazer,” Castiel leans in to whisper. “You have a tear.”

Dean looks down at the rip in his shirt as Castiel points it out, and swiftly pulls his blazer from of his chair and back over himself.

“Thanks,” Dean smiles.

Their eyes linger on each other’s until Ms. Leeman calls for the class’ attention. Castiel cannot help but roll his eyes when Dean’s concentration is on Ms. Leeman; it is this kind of recklessness that gets Dean in trouble all the time.

Pretty soon Castiel is taking down notes from Ms. Leeman on how to write an A plus text response; Dean is too, but to nowhere near the same detail. He is often distracted in class, especially English. The class is instructed to write a practice essay on the prompt Ms. Leeman writes on the board, and the classroom fills with mindless and generally irrelevant chatter.

“You seem pretty distracted today,” Castiel states, as he writes his introduction.

“I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Dean says.

“Like…” Castiel prompts.

“The demonstrations, Bobby.”

Castiel hums, unsure how to respond.

Dean doesn’t mind and goes back to writing general sentences about Shakespeare’s work. Castiel wants to be a reassuring friend, but now isn’t exactly an ideal time to talk about the demonstrations. Dean understands this – to an extent. Castiel still thinks that Dean takes really irritatingly bad opportunities to bring up these kinds of topics.

“It’s not knowing, you know, when, where,” he says a few minutes later.

“I know. Can we not?” Castiel groans and feels a pain in his heart at the look Dean gives him. “I mean right now, please?” he elaborates.

“Sure,” Dean nods, eyes finding his work again.

Dean becomes incredibly despondent for the rest of the class, and when the bell rings he picks up his books and leaves. Castiel can’t help but feel like a complete dick. He gathers up his books quickly and pushes past people to get back to the juniors' block.

“Dean,” he calls, when he sees Dean at his locker, getting his bag. He apparently doesn’t hear him so he tries again, pushing past more people crowding the homeroom, “Dean!”

Castiel ignores the looks he gets, as he makes his way over to Dean, who, it becomes clear, is adamantly ignoring him.

“Dean, please,” Castiel murmurs, irritated. Dean gives him a quick sidelong look. “It’s just we were in class, Dean. You should know it’s a sure way to get a ruler across your hand if we said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and you seem to bring up the wrong thing at the wrong time _a lot_.”

Dean’s shoulders slump and his expression falters. Castiel realises that he was being a tiny bit aggressive tonally towards the end, but the discontent looks that he threw Dean’s way every time he brought up something inappropriate in class apparently weren’t getting through.

“I’m sorry Cas. It’s not that… I don’t-”

“Do you want to find somewhere else to talk?”

Dean nods, his whole demeanor completely different than what it usually is.

“Let me get my bag, okay?” Castiel says, softly, aware now of an audience, who are trying to be inconspicuous.

Dean nods again.

“Don’t disappear, please.”

“I won’t,” Dean speaks, finally.

Despite his reassurance Castiel still rushes to his locker and pulls some books uncaringly into his bag; he doesn’t think he’ll be getting much work done tonight anyway. When he gets back to Dean most of the juniors have left, a few linger, laughing loudly or chasing each other around the locker bays before the junior student managers get back. Dean is leaning against his locker, a contemplative expression still apparently stuck on his face.

“Let’s go jump the fence,” Castiel says. He knows the fact that they can walk out of the front gate without risk makes jumping the fence redundant, but not only is it somewhere with absolute solitude, but Castiel knows that Dean likes it there.

Dean nods, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. They walk to the library, to avoid suspicion as everyone else walks towards the front gate. They slip around the side of the large building and walk over to the back of the school.

“I’ll go first, and you throw the bags over,” Castiel says, dropping his bag at Dean’s feet.

“Okay.”

They both make a smooth operation about crossing the fence and they settle against an oak tree, sitting in a simple silence; Castiel letting Dean settle his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says.

Finally.

“You’ve said.”

“But I mean it.”

“It’s just your timing. You know I’m happy to talk about it with you, when there’s no risk, like at the Roadhouse.

“I know. I don’t want you to get in trouble. It’s just that I’ve gotten so used to not caring about getting into trouble. But I care about you. I just need to remind myself in class.”

Castiel gives a curt nod. “Want to talk to me about it now?”

Dean nods, but returns to his silence for a while. Castiel, again, gives him time to think.

After long drawn out moments he speaks, his voice worn.

“I’m worried,” he pauses, “about Bobby mostly, and I know I told you not to worry about me and Sam, and I stand by that. But I haven’t been sleeping properly, or concentrating properly.”

Dean breathes out a sigh and Castiel shifts his focus from the ground to Dean’s now glassy eyes.

“He’ll be alright, Dean.” They weren’t truthful words, both of them knew it, but Castiel can see the little comfort it brings Dean by the way his body eases from its rigidity.

Dean leans against Castiel, his head dropping onto his shoulder. He takes long deep breaths for a few seconds, before his arms are wrapping tightly around Castiel’s waist, and he buries his face into his chest. He feels glad of his choice to jump the fence, with the knowledge that thick oaks conceal them, and that no one will be coming here.

He pulls Dean closer comfortingly by wrapping one arm tenderly around his shoulder, letting the fingers of his other hand gently run through his short hair. Castiel is confident that he will stay as long as Dean needs him. Fears of degeneracy paid no mind.

Nearly half an hour passes when Dean lifts his head from Castiel’s chest and swallows. Castiel knows he’s been crying; aside from the slight shaking of his shoulders when he had been hiding his face in Castiel’s blazer, his eyes are reddened. Dean doesn’t attempt to move any further away, staring at Castiel’s chest. Castiel’s never been one for crying, but the completely defeated look Dean dons now makes him want to. He runs his fingers through Dean’s hair again and Dean looks up at him.

“You okay?” he asks, softly.

Stupid question.

Dean shakes his head, tears pooling in his eyes again, one rolling down his cheek and he tries to look away before realizing the futility of the action.

Castiel could say that he doesn’t want to kiss Dean – that would be normal – legal, but a lie. And he’s never wanted to so much as he does right now, but he resists; he simply holds him a bit tighter in an attempt to keep him from falling apart.

Dean seems to appreciate the closeness and doesn’t appear to want to move away from Castiel anytime soon.

Soon the day fades to a cold evening and Dean begins to shift.

“We should get home,” he murmurs.

Castiel nods, smiling.

Dean smiles back up at him weakly, before he pulls himself up and reaches out a hand for Castiel.

When they get to Castiel’s house the sun has disappeared, shrouding the districts in darkness; the world only ever looks decent when you can’t see all its faults.

“Are you going to be alright, Dean?”

Dean only nods.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, with a curt nod.

As he turns to leave Dean’s fingers grip tightly around his upper arm.

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?” he asks, turning back.

“Thanks,” he mutters, before he pulls Castiel into a tight hold.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel says, returning Dean’s hug.

Dean is smiling when he pulls away, which is a welcome sight for Castiel.

Dean clears his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean,” Castiel says, with a smile.

The demonstration comes only three days later, on the thirty-first of October, and in fact they are _demonstrations_ , plural, a series of bombings across the States. The most devastated are Boston, Massachusetts, followed by the coastline of California. The demonstrations in Kansas occur to the Far West; away from Dean, and away from everyone Dean loves.

The morning, for Castiel, is a haze of a memory, blurred from the panic that beset his mind and wrenched tight around his chest as he ran as quickly as he could to the Proletariat section, only to collapse to his knees in relief out the front of Dean’s home. Gabriel hadn’t been around in the morning to inform Castiel that the Kansas demonstration hadn’t hit anywhere near them; he had only heard the words, “ _Halloween bombings, occurred across the nation overnight_ ,” from the news report on a radio in his kitchen, before he had sprinted out of his house and towards Dean’s.

Dean comes outside to Castiel, pulling him up from the ground, and wraps his arms around him, squeezing the worry from his stiff body.

“I’m still here,” he hears Dean murmur into his hair, before he pulls him inside the Winchester’s house.

“Where’s Sam? And Bobby?” he asks, his eyes skirting across the lounge room.

“The Roadhouse. We have school off for a few days; ‘case you hadn’t heard. They’ve closed off the industrial zone as well, but just for the day.”

The way Dean is speaking is slow and deliberate, and his eyes stare blankly ahead. He looks completely jaded. Castiel slowly slips into complex thoughts he’s not even totally aware of thinking. He can’t stop thinking about the fatalities and the consequences that might follow the demonstration.

“We should go?”

Castiel hums in question, before he’s pulled himself from thought.

“The Roadhouse – We should go there. I was waiting for you. I thought you might come.”

Castiel nods, and follows Dean out of the house.

The Roadhouse is packed with people. The Proles are all chattering loudly, though what surprises Castiel is that there are Bourgeois also amongst the crowd. He has only ever seen one other Bourgeois there before, and the sight throws both Dean and himself out of their casual walking pace.

“Hey, Dean!” they hear Sam’s familiar voice call from the bar.

Castiel gives Sam and then Bobby a fleeting smile as they walk over to them. Bobby gives him a friendly wink back – his version of a smile – before he turns back to chat with Ellen.

Sam looks the most shocked by the event out of all of them, which is fair because Castiel calculates that he must have been at most six or seven years old the last time something like this happened, and it had occurred in Delaware, six states separating them; the kid has probably assumed nothing like this could ever happen. Dean has already taken up a comforting presence next to Sam, keeping a strong hand on his shoulder.

The initial shock over the events has turned into a dull reality tucked nicely in the back of his mind; as long as Dean is alright, then he’s contented. The sheer amount of Bourgeois is still a little perplexing, but he chooses to disregard it while Dean walks Sam to room four. The rest of the Sanctuary Seekers rooms aside from a few on the end are taken, though room four remains vacant, and Castiel hears Dean mutter, “thanks, Ellen,” under his breath.

The bed in the room has never looked so tempting to just crawl into and sleep for the rest of the day, maybe with Dean’s comforting chest to press against, but he opts for just sitting in an armchair, and letting Dean and Sam take the bed.

At first Dean has the TV on the news channel, but after a few images of completely destroyed architecture and infrastructure from across the States, one of which is the town in Western Kansas lying in ruins, he changes it to the lottery.

“We went to Colby for school once; an excursion,” Sam says into his chest. “It took forever to get home, because it was raining all day, it caused horrible traffic.”

Dean is rubbing gentle circles into his brother’s shoulder, staring absently to the blank wall to the right of the TV.

“It was nice.”

The room goes silent, as they all reflect on Sam’s anecdote. When it seems as though Dean is lost to an endless train of thought, his attention is suddenly brought back to Sam.

“I can’t believe the Soviets would do that,” Sam says, furiously.

And then Dean’s looking at Castiel, imploring him with pleading eyes, to ask whether he should tell Sam or not, what everyone in Harvelle’s is thinking. Castiel feels terrible about it as soon as his muscles move, but all he can provide Dean with is a small shrug of his shoulders and a hopeless expression.

“Sammy.” Dean sighs, before clearing his throat. “Sam. What if I told you it wasn’t the Commies?” he says, hesitantly.

Castiel leans forward in his chair eager to see how Dean will approach telling his little brother about what he and Castiel, and every last person in this bar is thinking, and it actually strikes Castiel as odd that Sam has never been exposed to these thoughts before. He understands that it’s appropriate that Dean and Bobby should keep Sam sheltered, to protect him.

“There’s a lot of people, especially people like us,” Dean explains, gesturing between himself and Sam, leaving Castiel unnoticed in the armchair, “who think that maybe these attacks aren’t organized by the Communists.”

“Who, then?” Sam asks, his voice so small.

“The Roman Government, Sam.”

Sam momentarily looks as though his entire life has been a lie; which to be fair, if it is the Roman Government’s demonstrations, then it’s a warranted reaction.

“Are you sure? Are _we_ sure?”

“None of us are totally sure, but by the looks of things it seems we even have the Bourgeois thinking along the same lines.” Dean gives Castiel a brief glance to articulate his point.

“Cas?” Sam asks, tentatively, turning to Castiel, whose heart warms a little at Sam’s use of Dean’s coined nickname for him, said so beseechingly.

“Yes, Sam, I also agree with Dean and the other Proletariats.”

Sam nods, like Castiel’s word is the final testimony he needs to make his judgment.

“Looks like their plans to keep the Proles down and the Bourgeois blind have failed. I mean did you see the crowd of Bourgies down there, Cas? It all seems ridiculous now.”

Castiel hums in agreement. “It has seemed to have backfired.”

Apparently more so than first thought.

Over the next week California, Boston, and New York are thrown into chaotic riots. In the beginning reporters were saying they were rebelling due to the lack of Yellow Jackets and officials sent to rebuild damage caused by the demonstrations. However, when protesters began to bear Anti-Roman propaganda, it became harder for them to ignore that they were explicitly questioning the government.

A new armed and uniformed force called Order Preservers, or OPs, who were silently observing from every corner, heavily guarded schools and workplaces across the country. They made sure no one left establishments to begin riots. This, unfortunately, means that jumping the fence becomes completely impossible when it is implemented at _Saints of the Sacred Heart_.

Dean becomes even more defiant to staff at school, says he feels trapped. They all do.

Being seated next to Dean in class becomes unbearable, as he avoids watching more marks being lashed into his friend’s skin, and close encounters where for once it might have been Castiel finding his skin broken by a harsh thwack of a ruler. That scenario is becoming even more likely a reality, as more rioting continues, more harsh restrictions and punishments are being forced on the youths; more Bourgeois being harmed as a form of educational discipline.

When Castiel does find himself being wrenched by his shirt collar to the front of Mr. Gaines, Global Politics class (which is a complete joke of a class to Castiel anyway), it’s for a far worse reason than he could ever have imagined, and it’s unequivocally Dean’s fault.

It was close to the end of the afternoon class in which Mr. Gaines had been explaining ideologies – Communism, Socialism, Capitalism, Fascism, the lot – and Dean had turned to him and whispered, “What’s the Roman Government?”

Immediately Castiel thinks Fascism, which Mr. Gaines had spent the last twenty minutes defining with examples Nazi Germany and Stalin’s Russia, so he decided maybe now’s not the best to whisper back to Dean what he thinks.

“Ask me later, I can say it exactly.”

“Then write it,” Dean pushed.

Castiel shook his head, adamantly.

“Cas,” Dean had wheedled.

Castiel ripped a bit of paper from his book, aggressively, and scrawled ‘The Roman gov. is definitely Fascist’ across it and was about to hand it to Dean when a large hand had slammed down on his shoulder and by the time he thought to look up, Mr. Gaines has snatched the piece of paper from his hand.

Mr. Gaines is now forcing Castiel’s left hand flat over his desk, pulling a steel ruler into his grip. He can’t see Dean immediately in the class of stunned students. They clearly aren’t aware of the reason that _Castiel Novak_ might be being punished. And that’s when he feels that cold steel strike his hand. Initially it leaves a cold burning sensation over the back of his hand, and then it subsides into an agonizing stinging. And the onslaught just keeps coming. Castiel counts up to twenty strikes before he begins to feel faint and loses count, his skin becoming numb. It doesn’t end until the shrieking noise of the bell signaling the end of the day rings shrilly behind his ears.

“We’re heading straight to the Principal’s office,” Mr. Gaines barks.

Castiel glances desperately to where Dean and he were sitting, to where Dean has his face buried in his pencil case and books like Castiel so often did when their positions were reversed. Castiel might feel sorry for him if he wasn’t so incredibly angry.

“Winchester! Out! I have to lock up.”

Dean pulls his head up, eyes red, and stares, bewildered, clearly unaware that Castiel’s punishment has ended, though that will probably only last until he gets to Crowley’s office.

Dean grabs his books and almost stops to say something to Castiel, but Mr. Gaines is glaring a hole into Dean’s soul, before dragging Castiel away to Crowley’s office.

Castiel nurses his left hand on the way back to the juniors' homeroom. He was berated and then struck some more and then berated once again, by both Crowley and Mr. Gaines, for over an hour. When he walks into the homeroom and sees Dean loitering at his locker, the only person in the homeroom other than himself, he’s filled with unrivaled anger.

He feels his hand stinging with pain, and can only think: Dean’s fault.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs.

“Dean,” Castiel snarls, aggressively.

“Cas?”

Castiel moves forward, fast, towards Dean, who looks utterly confused, and frightened. He slams Dean against the locker, his hands seizing Dean by the collar of his blazer. Dean struggles and groans in protest.

“I rebelled with you for this?” Castiel yells, holding up his red and mangled hand, before balling it into a fist, and straight out punching Dean in the face. He immediately regrets it at the surge of pain that runs through his hand.

The blow understandably disorients Dean, and Castiel lets him go to swap hands, and delivers another punch to his stomach before, dragging Dean up and slamming him into the locker bay behind him.

“Cas, please,” Dean’s begging.

“I told you not to Dean! I told you this would happen! I asked you not to…” he trails off.

“Cas,” he says, his voice nothing but a strangled whisper.

Castiel drops Dean, Dean’s whole body relaxing into the lockers. He storms out of the homeroom before he can feel a semblance of an emotion, besides this anger, his bag forgotten.

The guilt sets in later, once the pain in his hand has subsided, and it finally sinks in. Everything is fucked. The States are fucked, his school is fucked, and everything that he had with Dean, the one thing holding his fucked life together, is now completely and utterly fucked, and it’s his fault – not Dean’s – his.


	4. The Revolt

**PART IV  
The Revolt**

When Dean was in sophomore year he was determined to run away, see what the States had to offer – see if they were all just as broken as Kansas. He thought he’d hotwire the Impala, and drive as far and as fast as he could before he would inevitably get caught, just to try. Then he thought the engine would make too much noise, and he wouldn’t make it a block without John’s old car making a racket through Proletariat Kansas City.

But in sophomore year, Dean had decided he was going to try. Sammy was too young to come, but Dean had met Castiel, and he knew he wouldn’t have to go alone; one day, he thought, they’d come back for Sam, who would be, undoubtedly, an intellectual, and self-reliant and do well somewhere like Boston or California.

He knew realistically, as he and Castiel had clambered over the school fence that they would barely make it a few miles before Order Keepers would find them and take them back to Crowley.

Castiel had had this look on his face the entire time, his mouth set in an indignant line and the rest of him telling Dean that he couldn’t believe he had ever agreed to this – neither could Dean, but it just made him that much more deeply grateful for the Bourgeois’ friendship.

“Where are we going?” he would keep asking, frustrated. “Dean?”

“As far away as we can get,” Dean eventually answered.

It was cold, even with the clear skies. The winter fog was thick and all the grass around them was covered in a thin layer of water and ice. They tried to hide when they heard the blades of a patrol helicopter cutting the air above them. Dean had pulled Castiel to the ground, underneath a tree, tucking their legs up to hide them behind the leaves of it. Dean could feel the wetness from the grass sinking through his uniform, the feeling as uncomfortable as the acceptance that Order Keepers have probably been dispatched to come and investigate who had ventured out this far into the rural area behind the suburbs.

Running was futile, but Dean had done it anyway, hand grasped tightly around Castiel’s own, shaking – maybe with cold, maybe with fright.

Dean had his eyes on the ground when Castiel had tried to tug him in another direction. He had turned to look at Castiel when his whole body impacted with the, at the time, terrifying Order Keeper. It looked down at Dean, with alien-like movements. Fully uniformed, head to toe in a black, save for a small symbol of the letters ‘O’ and ‘K’ over an Eagle with its wing spanned out. Bulletproof vest, helmet, and guns in holsters, the Order Keepers looked barely human, at the best of times.

The two boys had been taken back to _Saints of the Sacred Heart_ , pulled into Crowley’s office by the Order Keepers, both looking like pups with their tails between their legs.

Castiel especially had looked awfully fearful, never having being brought to Crowley’s office for any reason. His eyes were large and his brows drawn together.

“Novak, get to class,” Crowley had growled.

Castiel relaxed, considerably. He looked to Dean, who was trying his hardest to look both apologetic and relieved for Castiel.

“Get out!” Crowley barked.

It didn’t surprise Dean that Castiel got out of punishment. Crowley had lectured Dean about not leading the Bourgeois astray and then caned him for ten minutes across his back and the backs of his legs.

Of course Dean has thought about running away countless times since. He still has no idea where he would go, as long as it’s as far from here as he can get, and he has Sammy or Castiel with him.

But Castiel’s not going anywhere with Dean, not any time soon, at least.

The dim lighting and the dingy mirror in the Roadhouse’s bathroom makes it difficult to see himself, but he can make out the redness and swelling around his eye where Castiel had punched him. He tries to touch the marking Castiel left, but it’s still tender.

He’s so angry – with himself mostly. But he also wants to hurt Mr. Gaines for what he did to Castiel’s hand.

He sure as hell hadn’t been expecting Castiel to crowd him by the lockers and punch him, but he’d deserved it. Though it had hurt and he had protested it, he had wanted it, in a way; he knew that he warranted what would definitely be a black eye tomorrow.

There is only one positive outcome, or, realization, that Dean can say followed Castiel’s brutality, and that is that Dean can see now that Castiel isn’t just rebelling because Dean is. The clarity of the new understanding that _change_ is something Castiel, and presumably many other Bourgeois genuinely want, is a significant hope. Promise.

The burning over his eye is easy enough to pass off as a teacher’s punishment when everyone questions him about it, however the distance Castiel puts between them is much to explain, and moreover unbearable. It’s draining and frustrating to try and suppress the urges he gets to constantly talk to Castiel, about anything and everything that he comes across. He is so bored after school that he finds himself counting down the hours, minutes, seconds to when Sam gets home from baseball.

The more Bourgeois that are filling the Roadhouse now, really make it hit home that Castiel _isn’t_ , and possible never will be there again.

When Bobby gets to the Roadhouse with Sam on Wednesday, he looks more tired than usual. Dean only has to give him a questioning look and Bobby replies, “Urban workers got a little rowdy today.”

Dean puts an arm around Sam’s shoulder and begins to lead him out of the Roadhouse; instinctively knowing Bobby wants to go home, drink beer, and sleep.

“What do you mean by ‘rowdy’ exactly?” Dean asks, when they’re all in Bobby’s pickup.

“I mean we’re getting damn close to riots the size o’ the ones in Boston.” There’s a pause and then Bobby says, “and Boston’s damn close to a full blown revolt.”

“Good,” Dean sighs.

“Yeah, well. We’ll see.”

This confuses Dean until the riots begin to spread. State to state. It seems to happen in a matter of a few days – like influenza. Helena, Montana takes Boston and California’s lead, Carson City, Nevada follows Helena, then Phoenix, Arizona, then Lincoln, Nebraska, then New Orleans, Louisiana, until it finally finds Kansas City, Kansas.

It happens in the Urban Worker’s district. Bobby comes home most nights, dilapidated from the effort of dealing with rebellious workers, so when the actual rioting begins it isn’t all too surprising – at least to him. But that night Kansas City experienced several power outages.

The power outages were the least of their worries it seemed. Nights in the Proletariat section went by with seldom a minute of silence. People yell in the streets, all night. There is a rise in arsonists and defilers, all of them too close to their home, to Sam. Dean knew that his world was completely backwards when he felt safer and more at ease when he and Sam were at school. School isn’t exactly a myriad of escape from torment, with suppressing the need to talk to Castiel, hell, just to be close to Castiel.

The arsonists were frightening, to say the least. They had begun with political arson – burning down Order Keeper buildings, and courthouses, which had all seen copious amounts of innocent Proles convicted. Maybe it was younger Proles, taking the lead of the arsonists, but eventually housing lots, and community centres were being burnt down, particularly in the Bourgeois section.

During the threat of the demonstrations Castiel had been safe, but now, it wasn’t their own government that was attacking their weakest, in retaliation the weakest are determined to use the Bourgeois to make their own point. Castiel wasn’t safe anymore, and that thought only made Dean’s want to be near him greater.

And in fact, Castiel had, since Dean had ruined everything, isolated himself from everyone around him. At first when Castiel had been alone, other Bourgeois at the school had tried to talk to and befriend him, but Castiel apparently would rather be alone. Which made him more vulnerable.

The Order Keepers, being the smart fuckers they were, had started raiding places, figuring that all these Proles must have been in need of places in which to congregate. Luckily Harvelle’s hadn’t been raided; the Keepers had gotten as far as the entry hall, according to Ellen, taken a look at the courthouse-like appearance and walked straight out again. But other places hadn’t been so fortunate. Others like it had been closed down, the owners put to trial. Leaving a shortage of Sanctuary Seeker rooms.

Ellen had had an influx of people seeking asylum, and for god knows what reason, though it warmed his heart anyway, she was determined to keep room four free as long as she could. Any attempts Dean had made to try and tell her that it wasn’t necessary any longer were as futile as his efforts to stop thinking about Castiel.

Dean still spent his lunch breaks with the same people, Ash, Benny, Charlie, Jo, and occasionally Raphael, who really only came with them before, because he could smoke when he jumped the fence, which they couldn’t now. Maybe he had enjoyed their company a little more than Dean had thought.

Dean had felt bad about spending time with them during break, thinking it was him who should isolate himself for what had happened to Castiel – what he’d done to him. When he found himself enjoying the time he spent with the group he felt guilty, like it should be Castiel in his place, enjoying people’s company, instead of the company of a Roman Government approved book, but then, maybe Castiel enjoyed that more.

Since their old place of meeting had ultimately been restricted from getting to by the OPs, they all sat behind the old refuge buildings to the back of the school, near where the open field and fencing was; the fencing they used to be able to jump. The OPs near the fence would keep an eye on them, but that’s about all they could do, they were too far from them to hear anything they said.

They, on occasion, still talked about what they used to talk about. Generally Charlie would have something witty and funny to say about the Roman Government and off they would go on tangents about their lives, and the messes they were. Nobody, thank god, asked about Castiel and Dean’s recent avoidance of each other.

“They’re going to have to do something about the rioters soon enough, I mean they can’t let their precious Bourgeois suffer much longer, can they,” Charlie is saying, as she idly plays with Jo’s hair.

“I can’t tell whether this whole rioting shit’s a good or bad thing,” Ash replies, looking slightly naked without a bottle of beer in his hand.

“I don’t think we’re going about it the right way,” Dean interjects. “I mean, it’s not like it was the Bourgeois that bombed Colby.”

“Yeah, but s’not like they didn’t keep us down before. I’m not sayin’ any of ‘em deserve it, but who else are the Proles supposed to attack,” Benny says.

“Maybe the Order Keepers,” Dean mumbles. “The OPs. Seems more logical than the Bourgeois.”

“It’s not exactly like they can just attack the Order Keepers and OPs though is it? I don’t know about you guys, but I wouldn’t attempt to attack those guys, even if I had a death machine strapped to a Huey chopper,” Charlie says.

“Yeah those dudes are fucking scary,” Ash concurs.

“So they attack what they can? No matter if they actually deserve it or not? Sounds pretty logical,” Dean sighs.

When the bell rings and they all begin walking back to the juniors' block, Dean feeling a gentle hand around his arm. He looks back to see Charlie. They fall behind the others.

“You’re worried about him,” she says, her eyes tenderly searching his. “Castiel. He’ll be okay, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. You don’t either.”

“You two are distant. I don’t know what happened, and I know I don’t need to know, it’s your business, but Castiel always looks pretty out of it… sad… when I see him in Bio.”

“That’d make two of us.”

“Did you think maybe that he’s thinking exactly what you’ve been thinking? That he’s just as frightened for his own life? Maybe he needs you.”

Dean chuckles. “Charlie, I’m lucky he can put up with me being in the same school right now.”

Charlie raises a brow at him, then shakes her head. “Well it’s not like he has a choice.”

“Very reassuring.”

“You can always try, offer him someone to talk to?”

“Charlie, I…” he hates the way his voice breaks a little. “I ruined it. I got him hurt and I ruined any chance of ever talking to him again. The only way I’ll talk to him again is if he comes to me, and even if he does, I don’t know if I deserve his company.”

Charlie smiles at him forlornly and raises her arms. Dean looks at her bemusedly for a moment, before he decides fuck it, he needs a hug.

“I’m always here,” she whispers.

Dean smiles at her, thankful.

If Dean had found sleep hard before the rioters, it was pretty much a lost cause now. He managed maybe four hours at most a night, and it was broken and restless.

Dean could handle not being able to sleep, he’d gotten used to running on empty at school, but then the rioters began disrupting Sam’s sleep. Sam is a tough kid as far as fourteen year olds were concerned, but even Dean could admit a little fear at the intensity of the rioters.

Dean and Sam stayed up late with Bobby, in the lounge room every night. Sam, the little nerd, would do his homework on the floor, and Dean would read random books from Bobby’s collection, who would watch the lottery channel with a beer in hand. When the rioters got too loud Sam would press to Dean’s side and Dean would wrap an arm around his shoulder.

Dean presumed that Sam still didn’t fully understand the predicaments of their country, and the actions of the rioters and arsonists, but he knew sure as hell to be afraid, to be preemptive, like everyone else, waiting for a solution to come knocking on their front door and preparing for the worst if it didn’t.

That night, there is a loud sound outside their home, an ornament to the rioters yelling. It sounds to Dean like a car backfiring, but he has a feeling it isn’t quite that simple. It had been enough to scare Sam from his work and to Dean’s side. When he felt the kid shake a little and tears through the material of his school shirt he rolled his eyes and looked over to Bobby.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he grunts.

“It’ll pass,” Bobby says, so halcyon and self-assured.

“It’s upsetting Sammy,” Dean mumbles, before pressing a kiss to Sam’s hair.

Dean thinks he hears Sam make a noise of dissent, but he’s still crying so Dean ignores it.

That night is the first night in a long time that he doesn’t sleep at all. Eventually Bobby tells Sam and Dean that they have to go to bed for school tomorrow. Dean stays with Sam until he’s asleep, and tucks him in, before he heads to his own room. When he falls into bed it’s two in the morning. His mind wanders and thoughts drift to Castiel, and he prays – which he never does – prays that Castiel is safe.

Friday afternoon Dean decides to go to Harvelle’s after school, and is chatting with Jo when Ash comes over to them, from behind the bar.

“Hey, Dean, isn’t that Castiel?” Ash says, pointing to the entry door of Harvelle’s.

Dean’s heart jumps, in an agonizing and slightly jarring way it often does when he gets nervous.

He looks around, and sure enough Castiel is standing in the doorway, looking as edgy as Dean felt, and shaken, looking around the mass of people. He’s got to be here to see Dean, right?

“Sorry Jo,” Dean says, looking back at Jo apologetically.

She shrugs with a genuine smile, and Dean gets up and pushes his way past the people to the door.

“Cas.”

Castiel’s not looking when Dean calls to him, and when he hears his nickname being called he turns, and this look of complete relief washes over his once troubled features.

“Dean,” he sighs, before he’s burying his face in Dean’s shoulder, his arms tightly knit around his waist.

Well that isn’t what Dean had expected, but he hesitantly wraps his arms around Castiel’s shoulders.

Castiel doesn’t attempt to move, and nor does Dean, not yet; all of the patrons are distracted by chatter about rioting anyway, and Dean can’t give a fuck about an odd few who did see them.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean mutters.

Castiel looks up. His eyes are red, but dry; Castiel never cried, tough son of bitch.

“Room four’s still open, wanna talk about it?”

Castiel nods and follows Dean through the bar of people to the familiarity of the room.

When they’re in the room, Dean takes a moment to take in Castiel’s disheveled appearance.

“Did you run here?” Dean asks, sitting on the edge of the bed in the room.

Castiel nods.

Dean pats the spot next to him, and Castiel sits, dropping his face into his palms. He places his hand on Castiel’s back, still unsure about his boundaries, and rubs small comforting circles there.

“Talk to me,” Dean says.

“The rioters, they… When I got home from school… The yelling Dean.”

“Hey, hey, take your time,” Dean soothed.

 “The houses across from me, Dean, they were just rubble. There were paramedics everywhere. And Order Keepers arresting the arsonists,” Castiel says, through heavy, jagged breaths.

“You’re okay, Cas, you’re okay. Breathe,” Dean says, keeping his hand moving against Castiel’s back. “Breathe for me.”

Castiel takes in long, shaky breaths, in an attempt to do just that.

“I knew those people, Dean. Some of them are dead, and the others, well it’s not like you can just move on from having your house burnt down.”

“I know, Cas. I’m sorry.”

Castiel just fell against Dean, his head falling on his shoulder, before finding more comfort against his chest. Dean moved closer against him, holding Castiel like he’s done for Dean so often before.

Castiel seems content just to stay there forever, and the more he leaves Dean in silence to think, the more Dean hates that Castiel is giving him this second chance he doesn’t deserve. But then it’s not exactly like Dean can just leave Castiel in the state he is. He needed a shoulder to lean on, and he chose Dean, despite everything, and Dean is determined to be the best damn shoulder to lean on he can be. If that means forgetting that he caused the marks than run over the back of Castiel’s right hand, then he will.

Castiel mutters something into his chest, after what seems like an age to Dean.

“What?”

Castiel lifts his head. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?” Dean asks, softly.

“About what I did to you,” Castiel murmurs, his eyes running over Dean’s face, before cursing under his breath.

“Cas, I deserved it.”

Castiel’s brows knit and shakes his head a little. “Dean. No.” Castiel raises his fingers to softly brush the dark mark surround Dean’s eye. “You never deserved it.”

Dean raises his hand to cover over Castiel’s, and brings it down to their laps, and removes his other hand off Castiel’s back to hold it too. His thumbs gently trace the pink lines that cover it, shaking his own head in distaste.

“You never deserved this.”

“Maybe,” Cas sighs. “But I’m pretty sure that you didn’t deserve these,” Castiel says, turning Dean’s hands over in his, and mirroring Dean’s earlier actions with Dean’s own scarred hands. “And yet, here they are.”

Dean’s fingers wrapped back around Castiel’s, and just like that they were holding hands, marred and unmarred skin against skin, and it felt nice.

“I missed you Dean.”

“I missed your voice,” Dean smiles.

Castiel chuckles lightly; Dean knows that Castiel knows Dean likes his gravelly voice, always has. Castiel’s eyes lock on Dean’s.

“I was so stubborn. I’m sorry.”

“Stop sayin’ you’re sorry,” Dean growls, lightly.

“Sorry,” Castiel smiles.

They laugh, and Dean’s heart warms at the sound.

Castiel’s hand reaches to Dean’s darkened skin again, his fingertips against the bruised cheekbone. Dean cups each side of Castiel face, and leans his forehead against his.

“It’s okay, Cas, I swear.”

Castiel swallows, a small smile returning to his lips, so close to Dean’s.

“Do you want to stay? Here, I mean. The rooms still free, and it’s safe, and I’ll stay with you.”

Castiel nods.

“I want to, yes. But, I need to see how Gabriel is when he finds out. I can’t just leave him.”

“Of course.”

Castiel stayed in room four until five, and Dean and Castiel walk back to his place. Dean waits outside, while Castiel talks to Gabriel inside. The houses across the street are a sore sight, though most of the Order Keepers and Paramedics have cleared out.

When Castiel walked out, he wears a wistful smile.

“How’s Gabe.”

“Handling it decidedly better than I did,” Castiel says. “He said I should stay with you. Said he’ll stay with Kali and that it’s probably safer in the Proles’ section anyway.”

Dean couldn’t help his grin.

“I’ll just grab some things, and we can make a stop at your place to do the same,” Castiel smiles.

Dean nods.

Ellen is happy to have them staying. “Told you I should keep that room free,” she smiles at Dean.

Bobby’s happy with the arrangement too – mostly because Castiel’s back, but also, one less kid to look after.

“You be alright on your own Sammy?” Dean smirks at his little brother, ruffling the kid’s hair.

“Dean,” Sam grumbles, pushing Dean’s hand out of his hair. “Yes.”  
  
It’s hard saying goodbye to Sam knowing the week he’s had putting up with the rioters, but Sam knows how to be tough when it counts.

Dean and Castiel moved back into room four once Bobby has taken Sam home after dinner, and immediately flick on the lottery channel, and talk, just like they used to. It feels so good to just be able to talk again, and joke with each other like they used to. No one made Dean laugh like Castiel.

It reminds Dean of when they used sleep over at each other’s, before the air raids and bombings posed a threat. Though everything around Dean was getting worse, at least things with Castiel were better, and he had his light in the dark back. School would go back to being bearable, and now, safe.

When it gets late, and they get tired, they slip into bed. Castiel says something about being thankful and happy, his tiredness quieting his voice, but it makes Dean smile nonetheless, because he can relate.

This night has been a bombardment of surprise, then happiness, then contentment, and the warmth beside him is a reminder of why he’s so at ease. He mumbles out, “Me too,” and “Goodnight Cas.” He feels Castiel’s hand take his, as he moves closer to Dean, and wraps Dean’s arm around himself. Dean smiles to himself, complying with Castiel’s intention, holding Castiel close and warm against himself, as he falls into the best sleep he’s had in a long long time.

Neither one mentions it in the morning.


	5. The Honeymoon-Phase

**PART V  
The Honeymoon-Phase**

It takes a week before a yellow jacket team is sent to look at the houses across the street from Castiel’s. Every morning before school, Castiel would have to walk outside and see the wreckage of the buildings, and then be reminded of the strife of his neighbours.

The family directly across from Gabriel and Castiel’s home, the Miltons, had been inside of their home when the arsonists lit the fire that took their life. He remembers the couple well from his childhood. Mr. Milton with his pristinely pressed suits and perfect smile, and Mrs. Milton with her kind eyes and soft red hair; they would come over to their door bringing baked goods for Castiel, but that hadn’t stopped Gabriel from eating most.

Their daughter, Anna, who has long since moved out, used to babysit Castiel when Gabriel went out with Kali; he wishes he could be a comfort to her now, like she used to be for him when he was frightened of the monsters under his bed, when she tucked him in a night.

Ashes still catch on his uniform as he walks past them, observing the yellow jackets, as they evaluate the situation. The sky is grey to match the view of rubble. The wind is so strong that it takes Castiel as physical force of effort to move forward. It’s harshness matches reality in a way – a not so subtle reminder that the storm has only just begun, and of what’s to come – astringent and unpredictable.

It seems that things can only go downhill from now on. With the demonstrations came the retaliation of the proletariat, and now it’s the Roman Government’s play; it’s like a game of chess, only the pieces are real people, like in the Korean and Vietnam wars. But, as the saying goes, things have to get worse before they get better; Castiel just wonders if he’s seen the worst or if it is still to come.

He walks through the gates of _Saints of the Sacred Heart_ happily, now that he has a reason to look forward to it again; seeing Dean leaning against his locker staring off absently, it makes Castiel smile. When Dean turns to him, he forces it off his face and replaces it with a raised eyebrow. Dean raises his own, smirking.

“You’re early,” Castiel says, opening his locker and readying his things.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, faux-innocence all over his face. “I’m always here before you.”

Castiel nods in resignation. “Yes, but I’m early.”

“Why are you early, then?”

“I asked first.”

“Because… I like it better when I’m here, when Sam’s here, it’s safer,” Dean says, softly. “And you?”

“Same.”

He wants to say it’s because Dean’s here, but he ignores the urge. Partly it is because the school is now dotted with OPs, but mainly it’s because Dean’s here and is always there when Castiel needs him.

It hadn’t taken long after his outburst at Dean, that his anger had dissipated into an ache in his chest, regret and self-loathing swarming his mind. And everyday at school he’d spent alone and afraid, because he was still, despite everything, too proud to apologise.

He still struggles with the acceptance that it had taken an arsonist’s attack to get him to man up and go to Dean, and even walking into the Roadhouse, even with Dean’s arms around his shoulders, stabilizing and furtive, he’d still had a voice in the back of his mind telling him there’s no way he deserves Dean.

The purple that framed Dean’s eye has faded to a sallow colour now, and Castiel can barely stand to look at it, can’t stand that one of the marks of violence that pepper Dean’s body is his fault. It’s not how Castiel wants to mark Dean, not how he’d imagined. Castiel wants to suck illicit marks into Dean’s skin, bring pleasure to him, not pain.

Though Dean seems to have completely forgotten that it was Castiel who had given the black eye to him, and seems contented to not bring it up, this only serves to vex Castiel more; Dean shouldn’t ever want to see or talk to him again, he should be angered that someone he trusted had hurt him like the teachers and nuns at the school, that had been Castiel’s fear, but Dean had received him at the Roadhouse that day, like nothing injurious had passed between them.

They both grab their books from their lockers, after agreeing to go to the library until the first bell rings for class. The hallways and courtyards of the school seem emptier than Castiel’s used to, even if it’s earlier than usual.

“I don’t know if it’s just that it’s early, or does there seem to be a lack of nuns around?” Castiel asks, keeping close to Dean, as they fight their way through the strong wind to the library.

“Yeah, they’re lacking. Crowley’s probably shit scared the rioters will attack here next,” Dean says. “There’s been quite a few attacks on schools lately, because, you know, it’s where the Roman’s do most of their brainwashing. So Crowley’s got all the staff in the main block, until the day begins.”

“Oh,” Castiel murmurs, before he creases his brow. “There’s no way rioters could get past the front gates anyway, not with all the OPs around at least.

Dean gives a nod that reads ‘fair point’, and smirks a little. “Crowley’s just a paranoid bastard then.”

Castiel chuckles, as they walk through the library entrance. The heating systems still don’t work, anywhere, so there’s no relief from the harsh cold in the air. They find their seats, tucked away at the back, and both nestle into the warmth of their blazers and scarves.

They open their English books and continue writing practice essays, which are due after the weekend. Castiel has been struggling to write it, but only because he’s been spending all of his free time with Dean lately, trying to make up for what they lost, and the words don’t come so easy when all you can think about is having Dean back again.

“I can’t write if I keep freaking shivering,” Dean mutters. “It’s so fucking cold.”

Castiel can relate, as his body tremors in harmony with the cold in his bones.

He looks at Dean’s essay, but all he can see is the same neat handwriting that he’s always quietly admired beside Dean in class, it’s such an opposite of the untidy scrawl that Castiel has.

Dean pulls his scarf over his head, wrapping the tails around his neck.

“You look like an old Russian lady,” Castiel grins at him, and Dean snorts. “An OP might shoot you.”

Dean laughs, pulling the scarf down around his neck again, and gently shoving Castiel’s shoulder. The bell rings, they reluctantly gather their books close to their chests and make their way to their morning classes of Maths and English.

Dean, as usual on a Friday, is tense before History, but the entire afternoon lesson goes without a single question or stern look thrown Dean’s way by Mr. Don. In fact, as far as this week was concerned, staff hadn’t really tested Dean, or any of the other Prole students, at all.

At the end of the lesson, Dean had given Castiel a surprised look that transformed in a smug smirk as he walked out of the classroom and to the juniors’ block.

Castiel closes his locker door, after finally deciding he’s got everything he needs for the weekend. He gives Dean a smile, knowing that he would be leaning against his neighbouring locker, waiting for Castiel.

Once they’re out of the homeroom Dean looks over at Castiel.

“Want to come to the Roadhouse,” he asks.

Castiel nods, smiling warmly.

“Can I…” Castiel trails off, suddenly feeling that what he wants to ask is too forward.

 “What?”

Castiel swallows. “Can I stay over again? For the night, I mean.”

Dean grins, lopsidedly. “Yeah, course! Gotta check if there’s a room free, but yeah. We should grab some stuff first.”

“Yeah, okay. I should write Gabe a note letting him know, too.”

They take their time at each other’s houses, getting overnight bags ready, as they chat about the week. When they arrive at Harvelle’s, the sun is setting and the warm atmosphere of the bar is even more inviting escape from the chill in the air outside.

Castiel watches as Dean greets Ellen, and asks if there’s a room free. Dean returns to Castiel with a triumphant smile.

“Room four is free, and she’s fine with you staying the night, of course.”

As they head towards room four, Castiel notices that the ambiance at the Roadhouse has become subdued and as, if not more, relaxed than the first time he visited here. There seems to be no more patrons gathering crowds to talk about rioting, and rather just patrons having a beer and a laugh. It makes Castiel smile, because it’s so similar to a time before the demonstrations and riots.

He feels even more secure as he walks through into the familiarity of room four, and the happiness in Dean’s expression as he makes himself comfortable on the bed, flicking on the TV to the lottery.

The rioting has caused somewhat of a political stalemate between the Proles and the Romans. The Romans haven’t really done anything to curb the actions of the Proles; the most they have done is position a few more OPs around the streets.

The Proles are happy absorbing the atmosphere, and their newfound freedom that the rioters have gotten, while it lasts.

It reminds Castiel of when he had been studying the Russian revolution, and he had read about a period of time following the abdication of Tsar Nicholas II, in March 1917, in response to the events of the February revolution. The Provisional government was still trying to find its feet and a way to create a fair governing system. This relaxed and victorious attitude of the Proles is similar to the response of the Proletariat of Russia, only the Roman government was rather at a loss of how to respond to the severity of the rioting, rather than a new government trying to establish itself.

Thankfully, the nature of the rioting has become significantly less violent in the past few weeks, and is now more of a constant accompaniment of noise to the usual quietness that blanketed the Bourgeois section.

Castiel finds his place close to Dean, pulling him out of a far away look.

“You happy with the lottery?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods, with a smile. “It’s better than the news, or propaganda.”

The temperature is only a slight bit warmer in Harvelle’s, mainly because of all the people, though room four is quite cosy itself, whatever the reason, Castiel can’t help but be glad he’s not outside. He can hear the wind through the piping of the building, creating a creepy whirring noise, not dissimilar to the sound wind makes through an empty hallway, but also, just audible, is the sound of the wind beating the side of the building above them.

“I’m glad I’m not out there,” Dean says to Ellen, as she walks in to let them know that dinner is waiting in the bar.

She hums in agreement. “Doesn’t sound fun does it?”

Castiel smiles back at Ellen, as she gives the two boys warm looks.

Castiel enjoys eating in the bar now that the patrons are all back to speaking civilly together. Bobby and Sam are taking a while to get there so Dean and Castiel chat quietly whilst they eat. Castiel likes the simplicity of the moment; both the conversation, and easy silences they fall into are a peaceful, and somewhat of a therapeutic difference to the rest of their lives. Dean keeps smiling at Castiel, like he feels the same way.

The two of them have nearly finished their food, when Bobby and Sam arrive. Castiel and Dean both watch as the two stop at the bar and Ellen points to their lone table at the back.

“Ellen tells me you’re stayin’ again,” Bobby says, after he’s crossed the room.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, apprehensively receiving a hug from Sam. “What have I told you about showering after practice, before the-” Dean gestures a hand around Sam’s embrace.

Sam rolls his eyes, and pulls away. “Are you coming to my game tomorrow?”

“I don’t’ know, I have a lot of schoolwork to do,” Dean says, sarcastically, before winking at Castiel.

“But you always come…” Sam trails off, confusedly, looking up at Dean with the most beseeching eyes Castiel has ever seen.

Dean simply raises a questioning eyebrow at Sam, and Sam groans as he realises Dean was being facetious.

“Of course I’m coming,” Dean smirks, ruffling the boy’s hair.

Sam grins, and looks at Castiel. “Do you want to come?”

At this Dean looks at Castiel with a hopeful expression.

Castiel thinks for a moment before deciding his only work for the weekend is the English essay and that he can do on Sunday. Besides, it’s more opportunity to be with Dean.

“Okay, sure,” he says.

This earns Castiel grins from both the Winchester boys.

“Don’t forget you’ve got work at the garage on Sunday, Dean,” Bobby adds.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, waving Bobby off with his hand.

Bobby and Sam leave not long after dinner, Sam still over ecstatic about the game tomorrow. Castiel and Dean make their way back to room four, finding their place back on the bed again.

Dean turns on the lottery and they watch in silence, unless something the presenter says makes them both laugh, just like it used to. Castiel feels the exhaustion from the day settle in his mind and his eyelids grow heavy.

When he wakes, it’s to gentle pressing of a hand on his shoulder. He realises as he wakes that his head is leaning against Dean’s arm. His cheeks flush pink at the awareness of the proximity, he hopes Dean will think it’s due to the constant, mellow chill that resides around them now.

Castiel groans. “How long was I-”

“Maybe two hours,” Dean replies, corners of his mouth turned upward.

Castiel pulls himself off of Dean and forces himself to put a little distance between them, no matter how much he doesn’t want to. He scolds himself for thinking that Dean’s smile is replaced by a look of disappointment.

“How long was I… leaning on you?” Castiel asks, awkwardly.

“Your head slipped about an hour ago,” Dean smirks.

_You didn’t think to move me?_ Castiel wants to ask, but he doesn’t, Dean seems entirely unperturbed by the situation, which is, honestly, just like him.

“I only just realised you were asleep though,” Dean chuckles, and there is something else underlying his words, something else making Dean’s eyes seem a little brighter as he says it, something hopeful. Castiel raises his eyebrow, but stays silent. “I thought I should wake you and we can go to sleep, ‘stead of having the TV going.”

Castiel nods as he stretches out his limbs, taking in a long breath, though all the tiredness he felt before has completely vanished.

They get ready for bed and slip in, getting comfortable.

“Night, Cas,” Dean says.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

The newfound wakefulness doesn’t seem to do away, even tucked into the warmth of the covers. He lies still, content in appreciating the covers and the comforting presence of Dean behind him as he listens to the audible evidence of the storm outside.

Dean turns a few times. Castiel likes it best when he’s facing him, and he can hear Dean’s steady breathing from behind him.

He can’t remember a time when he felt this safe; the closest thing to the feeling of protection he gets from Dean, was from Anna, and the closest thing to the affection Dean shows him, is from Gabriel.

“Dean?” Castiel murmurs into the darkness, having lain awake for over an hour. Castiel doesn’t know whether or not he’s awake, but he wants him to be.

“Hmm?” Dean’s voice comes from behind him; so close Castiel can feel his warm breath against his neck.

“I’m not going to sleep,” Castiel says, turning to lie on his back.

Dean laughs lightly beside him. “Neither.”

Castiel smiles. The only light source is a small glowing light coming from the TV, and Castiel can just barely see the edges of Dean’s face and the reflection of the light in his eyes.

“I could kill for some apple pie right now,” Dean says. “With ice cream.”

“Yeah, or a burger, lots of ketchup.”

“And fries,” Dean adds.

Castiel moans, comically “Yum.”

“Well great, that’s made me hungry.”

Castiel chuckles.

From beside him he can feel and hear Dean’s movement as he gets out of the bed.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says, as he circles the bed and reaches a hand to Castiel.

Castiel pushes the covers from his body, and reaches his hand to Dean’s as he pulls him out of the bed.

“What are we doing?”

“Going to get food, from the bar.”

The noise from the bar had dulled slowly about half an hour ago, until Castiel had heard Ellen locking up and heading to her room down the hallway, and then nothing.

Dean opens the door, and light seeps in from the hallway. Dean presses a finger to his lips, and then moves outside the door. They walk swiftly to the bar on light feet, Dean opens the bench to enter the bar, and looks through the pantries. He pulls out bags of chips, and nuts, and decides on grabbing a few rationed beers too.

It’s definitely not the burger and fries, and an apple pie dessert meal that they’d been planning, however Castiel was hungry, and there was no way they were going to get the food they had envisioned anyway. The last time Castiel had eaten a burger was before his mother had gone to work in Washington, and he can only imagine how long it’s been since Dean has had apple pie.

“Won’t Ellen know?” Castiel whispers.

“I’ll pay her in the morning,” Dean replies, urging Castiel back to room four.

“Dean,” Castiel pushes.

“It’s okay, Cas, I can afford it,” Dean smiles, softly. “Rationed beer costs nothing.”

Castiel sighs in resignation as they reenter the room. Dean circles the bed, turning on a lamp and discarding the items on the bedside table, while Castiel closes the door, and flicks off the overhead light, before returning to the bed.

Dean joins him and passes Castiel a beer.

“Cheers,” he smirks.

“Cheers,” Castiel laughs, clinking their bottles together.

Once the food and beer has been long eaten and drunk, and their conversations have lead them into the early hours of the morning, they finally decide they’re tired enough to attempt some sleep before tomorrow.

“What time is Sam’s game?” Castiel asks, once they’ve washed up and gotten into bed again.

“Three I think,” Dean murmurs.

“In the Afternoon?”

Castiel can see Dean give him an incredulous look. “No, it’s in twenty minutes, Cas, time to get up again,” Dean says sardonically.

Castiel turns and buries his face in Dean’s shoulder. “I hate you sometimes,” he mumbles into the cotton of Dean’s shirt.

Dean laughs. “Sure.”

Castiel feels the weight of Dean’s other arm curling around him, and pulling him closer. Castiel does immediately think to move away from the contact, but then, it’s kind, affectionate, and warm, and the thought of moving away from Dean is an unpleasant one. He sidles in closer still instead, and finally drifts into sleep again after whispered _goodnights_.

In the afternoon Dean takes Castiel to Sam’s football game. The day’s weather is not much better than the last, but all the player’s families are still there to support them. Initially Castiel is surprised by the turn out, but thinks if all of Sam’s close family has turned up to watch, then it can’t be too implausible that all the other player’s families have come along too. Castiel feels an ache of melancholy at the acceptance that his family wouldn’t come to a game if he played sport competitively like Sam did, with his dad overseas, his mother in Washington and Gabriel always being busy.

The game starts, even as the sky turns a threatening hue of grey. Castiel has never been an avid fan of football, but he understands the logistics and dynamics, and knows when to cheer and when to groan.

Sam’s opposing team takes an easy lead for the first half of the game, however, after half time they become relaxed and overconfident, and allow a victory for Sam and his team. Dean cheers and whistles loudly, shouting “Go Sammy!” as the players shake hands.

There’s celebrations afterwards, a barbeque with all the players and their families. For once Dean isn’t hesitant about accepting a hug from his brother, despite him not having a shower.

“Well done, Sammy,” Dean praises.

Castiel smiles with Dean in agreement.

“Great game,” Castiel says, “you’re a great player.”

Sam’s smiles widens, before he’s called away by the coach.

Castiel and Dean grab some food and find a spot on one of the picnic tables around the park. It’s not the most neat nor botanical garden, and the table they choose is rickety, but it’s still nice, at least nicer than the concrete and brick appearance of the city.

“Better eat quickly,” Dean says. “Doesn’t look like the rain will stay away much longer.”

As it turns out, Dean is right, and about half way through eating the wind gets stronger and small drops spill from the sky.

The club members hurry to pack away everything before it pours. Bobby tells Dean to head back to Harvelle’s, and that Sam and him will get there shortly.

Castiel packs his things when they get back, hating having to.

“I don’t want to go home.”

There’s something deeper in meaning layered under his comment, for one, he feels more at home here, with Dean, than when he is actually at home. A scary thought crosses his mind, that if he could, then, he would be with Dean all the time. He knows that he would follow Dean wherever he goes, and would do anything for Dean unless it put him in danger.

For the most part Castiel is fairly certain Dean feels the same about him, and there’s a sort of constancy and dependency in their friendship. Whether their relationship is healthy or not, Castiel does not know, but at this point he doesn’t truly care, even if they sometimes cross a line into degeneracy, Castiel cannot care, because being close to Dean is what makes everything in this world brighter.

“I don’t want you to either,” Dean sighs, leaning against one of room four’s walls. “Can’t you stay again?”

“I would, but I need to clean the house, and get English done for Monday. Besides, you have work tomorrow and you’ll need to get a good night’s sleep, not stay up to three, talking,” Castiel smiles.

“But I liked staying up to three, talking,” Dean smirks back.

Castiel drops his bag by the door, and looks at Dean apologetically. Dean strides over and wraps his arms tightly around Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel slips his own arms around Dean’s waist and doesn’t hesitate to nestle into his chest.

There’s a part of Castiel, still, that wants to pull away from the contact, a very small part of him still screaming that this is _wrong_ , like he had always been taught. He’d always feared his fondness of Dean growing, only because he knew that it was punishable in the eyes of the Romans, even if every degenerate touch they shared felt more right than anything Castiel had experienced in his life under Dick Roman’s government. He both wants more from Dean and knows that he can’t have it.

As he feels Dean’s fingertips thread softly through his hair, the small part of him shallows to nothingness, and his own fingers grip desperately at Dean’s shirt, because he hopes Dean will be able to figure it out, so Castiel can spare words. Dean doesn’t shy from Castiel’s affection, and it should make Castiel more wary, but again, he hopes, that it is Dean’s way of letting Castiel know he understands.

Castiel looks up at Dean, their lips are close, it would be too easy to press forward an inch and kiss him.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Castiel says, softly.

He feels Dean’s arms loosen around him, and Castiel moves to the door.

“See you, Cas,” Dean smiles, but the shine in his eyes is gone.

Castiel walks back home feeling both hollowness in his chest and weight in his steps. He collapses into his bed when he reaches his room, and lets his mind wander back to the memory of being in Dean’s arms. As he drifts to sleep, he thinks perhaps Dean isn’t so oblivious to Castiel’s intention, and that maybe, just by the way Dean’s eyes wander from his eyes to his lips so often, and the way that he holds him when he does, that Castiel isn’t so oblivious either.


	6. The Reform

**PART VI  
The Reform**

Though they take their time a response does come from the Roman’s, and it’s worse than anyone could have anticipated. Dean is in class when Richard Roman makes his address to the States of the actions they are taking to deter the behaviour of the rioters. Lessons are disrupted as the voice of their leader reverberates through the decrepit speakers in the school.

Firstly announced is the increasing of Order Keepers and Order Preservers, secondly is the installment of tasers for all of them stationed around government buildings, Thirdly secondary searching of all Proletariat homes and estates, and fourthly the establishment of electric fencing around the perimeters of all the states – to segregate them from one another, and ensure government knowledge of every one person at every one time.

The class looks somewhat disturbed and nervous at the announcements. Dean looks at Castiel sitting beside him, he looks more concerned than the rest of them combined.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, shocking Castiel out of his stupor. Dean takes Castiel’s hand under the desk, squeezing gently, and stroking the back of his knuckles softly. “It’s okay,” he mouths.

Castiel turns back to Mr. Don, who is continuing the lesson as if nothing has passed between this sentence and the last he spoke.

Castiel doesn’t loosen his grip on Dean’s hand until the bell goes and they no longer have the luxury of the desk obscuring everyone’s view of them.

They walk outside to make their way to their lockers, no student not stopping to gawk at the new posters of Richard Roman, which must have been pinned up whilst they were in class. The posters are simply of Richard Romans enigmatic profile, with a caption running beneath it, reading, ‘ _You’re under control, never worry_.’

Dean is busy trying to withhold his furor when he notices Castiel walk away from the posters and towards the lockers. Dean follows close behind, not wanting to lose him.

“We’ll be at our normal spot,” Benny says, as Dean passes them in the juniors’ block.

“I don’t think I’ll make it today,” he replies, directing Benny’s gaze over to Castiel. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright, brother, hope he feels better,” Benny says, with a genuine look of concern.

Dean haphazardly tosses his books in his locker, trying to get back to Castiel as quickly as possible.

Castiel in his absent clarity of mind is lazily taking his time to put his books away. Dean glances around at the nearly empty locker bay, there’s no one directly in sight, but he can hear the voices of students behind lockers. It’s a risk, but if it brings Castiel some semblance of comfort he can’t regret placing his palm against his back and rubbing.

“Come on, Cas, you’re alright. We’ll find somewhere and you can tell me what’s wrong, okay?”

Castiel nods, closing his locker. Dean wants to hold him, but knows he can’t. Dean has to drop his hand from Castiel’s back, and his face falls immediately.

“Follow me,” Dean says, his tone apologetic.

Dean takes him to the library, though they don’t go in. He continues to lead him around to the back of the library, there is a set of stairs going into a recess in the building, leading to a set of heavy wooden doors, that are never used.

Usually the freshmen of the school liked to be here during break, playing ball games when the sisters aren’t looking, but today it’s cold and the sky promises more rain, and they have stayed in their block.

Dean sits on the steps stretching his legs across one, letting his head fall back against the wall. Castiel sits a step below Dean, pressing his head back to the same wall. The promises of the reform settle in Dean’s thoughts and he rubs his fingers into his temples. There is something so severe in the idea of taser weaponry and electric fencing, and Dean suddenly feels more trapped than the gates of _Saints of the Sacred Heart_ could ever make him feel.

Castiel has a look of quiet concern and fearful contemplation on his face, and Dean hates it more than he’d admit out loud.

“Talk to me,” Dean breathes.

“My mother, what if I… never see her again?” Castiel says, paced and deliberate.

“You will,” Dean promises, even if he doesn’t have any right to.

“I’m never getting out of Kansas, and she won’t come back, not with the position she has in the government, they won’t let her.”

Both the boys know the feeling of not having parents around, and being cared for by your uncle or cousin is fine, but it’s not even close to the same; though Castiel’s never known the feeling of knowing you’re never going to see one of your parents again, not like Dean does, not until now. Dean may have been young when he lost his mother, but the knowledge and understanding that you’re not going to see someone again is a crippling feeling, not easily forgotten, and he doesn’t want Castiel to have to feel that.

Dean stays silent, figuring it better than perhaps saying the wrong thing.

“Do you remember your mother?” Castiel asks, softly, after a long pause. “Sorry to bring it up, just… do you remember her?”

“Yeah, not vividly, but if I concentrate I can remember her face, her nature.”

“I don’t remember my mother,” Castiel says, his voice shaky. “There’s a photo of her I have, on the mantle over the fireplace, but I don’t remember what she was like, how she cared for me.”

“When did she leave you with Gabe?” Dean asks, tentatively.

“When I was nearly three; Gabe said that I cried for days, because she was going to miss my birthday,” Castiel chuckles, softly, shaking his head. “I don’t know my father either, though, I don’t have any pictures of him. He could come home from war, walk right past me and we probably wouldn’t even know the difference of relation and complete stranger.”

Castiel had told Dean about how his father had left for war mere weeks before his birth, about how his name had been drawn from a birthday lottery, and that he had no choice, unlike Dean’s dad who had always been a military man and left for the USSR just after Dean began freshman year. Though he’d never known the complete lack of connection that Castiel had with his parents, and he couldn’t find the words to express how much sympathy he had, nor how much he cared.

Dean takes Castiel’s hand in his, stroking his thumb gently across his knuckles. He brings Castiel’s hand up to his mouth and presses his lips to the back of it, less of a kiss and more of a comforting gesture, before he wraps his other hand around their two linked ones. Castiel’s soft smile is enough to assure Dean that he has done what he can, though he wishes desperately to hold Castiel close like he can when he’s at Harvelle’s.

The rioting ceases in the next few weeks, as well as the electrical fencing being installed. Dean hasn’t seen the fencing even though it cuts through the centre of Kansas City, separating Kansas from Missouri; he didn’t really want to see it if it meant acknowledging that he is truly trapped. No one else seems to want to go near it after reports of attempted refugees testing the fence’s electricity. It’s safe to say that they’re effective.

Bobby sometimes has to pick up items for work near the fence, and the first time he had to he came home saying he wishes that he could return to Lawrence, where Dean had spent his early life. His dad left for war, leaving Dean and Sam in Bobby’s care, who needed to leave for Kansas City to get a job well-paying enough to support them.

Dean helps Bobby load a few heavy boxes of illicit materials into his pickup, to take to Harvelle’s before the second round of inspections begin. They had searched Harvelle’s again a few days ago, and again were contented with the courthouse-like appearance of the entry hall. Now, for the first time, they were searching local Prole residential lots, and it had taken Bobby and Dean hours to riffle through all of their belongings and dividing the lawful from the non.

They drop the books off with Ellen, who stores them in room four so Dean can keep an eye on them, and then they settle at the bar and order a few beers. Dean’s exhausted from the searching, packing, and lifting, but his mind is at ease knowing that when the Order Keepers come to inspect their house, none of them are at risk.

“You hear about that bourgeois couple in Seattle who got gunned down trying to stop a Roman from assaulting a Prole?” Ellen asks Bobby.

“What?” Dean exclaims before Bobby can answer.

Ellen nods, with an understanding expression. “Happened yesterday. Romans didn’t even try to hide it from the media. One of ‘em said it was an example to the rest of Bourgeois.”

Dean shakes his head, feeling ill at the thought.

“It was gonna happen sooner or later, the Romans losing complete loyalty of the Bourgeois. Looks like all they got is themselves to prioritise now,” Bobby says, before downing his beer.

Dean buries his ill feeling and drinks the rest of his own as well, before they leave to pick up Sam and head back home. As they expect, the inspection goes well, and the Order Keepers are in and out in less than half an hour.

In the evening Dean is with Sam and Bobby in the lounge room like they always do, however the atmosphere surrounding them is relaxed for the first time in a long while, and there is a certain soothing nature to the silence in Proletariat Kansas City. For at least a while Dean knows that him, Sam, Bobby, and Castiel are safe, which brings him a little bit of ease, how long this period of stillness will last is anyone’s guess, but Dean enjoys it whilst he can.

He can’t help feeling over the next few days that the couple in Seattle won’t be the last to lose their lives during the reform; in fact he’s not entirely sure that they’re the first. It’s one of the most unsettling feelings wondering just how many people have been killed trying to speak out for those who need it.

Dean isn’t unfamiliar to the brutality of the Roman government’s regime, but being shot isn’t something he’s ever entertained the idea of, even being tasered is a long shot.

The Order Keepers outside the school make him nervous whenever he has to walk through the gates, even though he hasn’t done anything worth warranting being tasered – except being a Prole perhaps.

It’s a Friday afternoon the next time Dean and Castiel agree on him coming and staying at Harvelle’s. Dean waits for him near his locker whilst Castiel sees Mr. Don for some feedback on their last history essay, when Castiel walks into the homeroom he looks incredibly tired.

“Did he rant?” Dean asks, smirking.

“Did he ever,” Castiel sighs, rolling his eyes.

Dean chuckles as Castiel rests his forehead against his locker, whilst he unlocks it. Castiel pulls a few books into his bag and drops it to the ground.

“I’m too tired for life right now,” Castiel groans, leaning against the shelf in his locker.

“Should I carry you to Harvelle’s?” Dean jokes.

Deciding to abuse the desertion of the homeroom, Dean takes Castiel in his arms around his middle and lifts him over his shoulder. Castiel’s initial grunt quickly subsides into fits of stunted laughter; his stomach muscles are pressing roughly into Dean’s shoulder as Dean makes his way towards the homeroom door.

“Dean – I can’t – my bag – I need to – close my locker,” Castiel manages through his breathless laughter.

Dean grins as he lets Castiel back down to the ground, and he runs back to close his locker and grab his bag, before they head out towards Castiel’s house.

“Someone could have seen that if they happened to have walked in,” Castiel says, sternly, but there’s a smile on his face, whilst he packs his bag to stay at the Roadhouse.

“Someone could have,” Dean agrees, “but no one did.”

“Probably couldn’t have carried me that far anyway.”

Dean probably couldn’t have; Castiel’s not particularly heavy, but he’s all lean muscle so he’s not the lightest person either.

“Bitch, you wanna go?”

“What? Carrying you?”

Dean nods, smiling.

Castiel laughs. “Yeah sure, we’ll have to test that sometime.”

After dinner Castiel falls asleep fairly quickly next to Dean, on the bed in room four. Dean has the TV on the propaganda channel, quietly. Dean’s fingers still run softly through Castiel’s hair, even though he’s already dozed off; he likes that he can keep doing it without Castiel giving him slightly perturbed looks every now and then. Dean is aware of the intimacy of the two of them being a little less platonic than desired by the Roman government, but Dean never intended the action to be simply friendly.

Dean’s not particularly paying attention to the TV, it’s more directed and Castiel, but he chuckles softly at some of the propaganda, and every time he hears the line ‘ _You’re under control, never worry’_.

There’s something so egregious in the nature of the Roman government, something so unnerving in the machinations and deceit entrenched within the government. And that worrying is such a common feeling amongst the people of the States, that for their line that runs below every ad and poster to include ‘ _never worry_ ’ is so ridiculous in itself.

The Roman government’s only lapse is that they aren’t completely under control, they wish to be, and they continue to instate new ways in which to acquire more so and more so. Though it seems that lately the unfathomable amount of control they once held, in which Bourgeois like Castiel were kept completely blind and coerced, is slowly becoming less overpowering.

Castiel has his own way of defying their command, to which he has become an incredibly bright autodidact, and that he’s not afraid to follow Dean to places like Harvelle’s. In a lot of ways Dean looks up to Castiel, he had a lot more to lose when he chose to rebel, and that kind of bravery and loyalty is something Dean cannot ever reflect nor repay, though he’ll try his best.

He turns the TV off, after finally growing tired of seeing Richard Roman’s face, and the Machiavellianism that he embodies. He hates having to wake Castiel, but knows he’ll appreciate getting under the covers, away from the cold.

“Dean?” Castiel murmurs, once they’re finally under the covers. Dean barely hears Castiel through his tired drawl.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t want to see the fence, do you?”

“I’m not fond of the idea, no,” Dean replies, trying to search Castiel’s eyes, in the darkness, for an idea of his thoughts.

“I… I think I do, I don’t really know why exactly, maybe just to make it real.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t want to see it,” Dean says, with a soft laugh.

Castiel makes a noise of understanding, and then goes silent.

“Cas? You can ask me anything you know that,” Dean says.

“It’s just, I don’t want to go on my own, besides I don’t drive,” Castiel says, with a stilted hesitance.

“Subtle, Cas, subtle,” Dean chuckles. “I’ll take you tomorrow, but we’ll have to go north, towards Nebraska.”

“You’re really going to take me?”

“Yeah, I said anything didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did. Thanks Dean… especially considering you’d rather not see it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dean smiles at Castiel, who returns it with way more eagerness than Dean thinks is appropriate for the time or situation, but it makes him grin wider still. “We’ll go in the afternoon too, there’ll be less OPs in the rural areas then, we’ll get back pretty late, but you can stay here again if you want.”

“Yeah, sounds good, can we quickly go see Gabe beforehand, just to let him know.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

“What did I say?”

Dean can almost hear Castiel roll his eyes.

“Goodnight,” Castiel says, through an exasperated laugh.

“Night, Cas.”

They spent most of the morning getting ready for the trip; they visited Gabriel first, to tell him that Castiel is staying with Dean for another night, to which he just shrugged with a scoff and a smirk, then they got some food ready for the trip, before picking up the Impala from Bobby’s car yard.

As he turns the key in the ignition and the impala’s engine roars, he can’t help the grin he directs at Castiel, who just smiles and shakes his head. It feels nice to drive her again, it’s not often he get the opportunity to drive, living in not only such a tightly knit community, but also a restricted one; in a way Dean is incredibly happy that Castiel asked him to take him to the fence, just so he has this chance to drive for over three hours.

As they pass through the city towards the rural areas surrounding Kansas City the heads of OPs follow them, but it’s hard to tell whether or not they’re doing it out of suspicion, or just simply taking notice. Dean can see the nervousness in Castiel’s face out of his peripherals whenever there are OPs around, once they are out of sight he reaches out his hand and squeezes Castiel’s shoulder.

They chat and laugh together, until they start driving into the countryside, and suddenly Castiel’s attention is captivated by their surroundings outside the window.

“What’s up, Cas? Never seen the countryside before?”

“No,” Castiel says.

“What? Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Castiel laughs. “I’ve never been out of Kansas City.”

“Holy shit,” Dean gawks.

“Don’t suppose I’ll ever get much of an opportunity to get out of Kansas City now.”

“If I could I’d take you wherever you asked,” Dean says, before swallowing anxiously at the sincerity of the comment, but Castiel just gives him a bright smile before returning his gaze out the window.

Dean lets Castiel be entranced by the scenery for the rest of the trip, trying to withhold constantly looking over at him with adoration. When Dean can see the fence he suddenly wants nothing more than to turn around and drive back home, but he keeps heading towards it despite the sickness in his stomach at the sight.

Castiel seems to just stare ahead when Dean pulls up. The area is surprisingly barren considering it’s a border, but then, the fences are electric.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says, getting out of the Impala.

Dean walks towards the fence, standing about a metre away and waits for Castiel to join him by his side.

“Well I guess it exists, dude,” Dean says, sardonically.

Castiel laughs. “Shut up, Dean. It’s so weird, being so close to Nebraska, but unable to get there.”

“It’s just cows and corn over there, you’re not missing much,” Dean smirks.

Castiel laughs, shaking his head.

There’s a cool bite to the air, which becomes more apparent to Dean the longer he stands looking through the fence into the unreachable expanse of countryside Nebraska. He glances over to see that Castiel’s expression has become solemn.

“Cas?” Dean murmurs.

“You were right,” Castiel mumbles back.

“‘Bout what?”

“Making this real… I thought…” Castiel pauses, and Dean lets him find the words he needs. “I thought that it might, somehow, make me accept the fact that I will never get out of Kansas, or see my mother again – I thought I might feel something revelatory, something profound, but I just feel more empty now.”

Dean closes the space between them and wraps his arms tightly around Castiel’s shoulders, turning him away from the fence. For the first time Castiel really clings to Dean when he holds him back, and Dean can really feel Castiel’s need for his comfort.

Dean lifts Castiel’s chin from his shoulder with his thumb and forefinger, resting their foreheads together. He smiles gently; trying and succeeding in getting a small smile from Castiel in return.

Dean can feel the pull between them, drawing their lips closer, but Dean draws back before they meet, his awareness of where they are kicking in. He lifts his palm to Castiel’s cheek hoping to sooth away the sadness in his expression.

“Come on, Cas. Let’s get out of here.”

They drive back in relative silence. Castiel has his legs tucked up on the seat, as he stares out the window, content in the peacefulness of the ride back to Harvelle’s.

When they enter the Roadhouse, Ellen sits them in the bar and brings them dinner, lifting Dean’s head off the table to place his food there instead.

“Forgot how tiring driving was, didn’t you?” Ellen laughs.

Dean smiles. “Yeah. Thanks Ellen.”

“Thank you,” Castiel mirrors.

“No problem, boys, you two have a good night’s rest.”

 They eat their food, enjoying the coziness of the Roadhouse, before heading back to room four.

“Thanks for taking me today, even if it didn’t go quite how I expected, I really did enjoy the car ride.”

Dean glances up at Castiel and gives him a wink.

“You look pretty worn out,” Dean says, discarding his overnight bag that he was fiddling with and moving over to Castiel.

“So do you,” Castiel smirks.

“Are you okay?”

Castiel hums with a somber smile. “Are you?” Castiel pins him with such an imploring look.

Dean sighs heavily, looking away at the wall.

“Dean?” Castiel draws Dean’s attention back to him, his hand against Dean’s cheek, Castiel’s fingers brushing the short hairs at the back of his neck.

Dean smiles; enjoying the comfort that Castiel can bring him with one gesture. He is tired, and he was a little overwhelmed seeing the fence for himself, but it’s nothing he can’t just pick himself up and move on from. Dean moves forward seeking a little bit more closeness

It would be entirely too easy to close the rest of the space between them and kiss Castiel, and he does want to, but there’s a tightening in his chest at the thought of Castiel not returning the feelings that Dean has for him, and that makes him feel nauseous.

“Dean?”

Dean isn’t aware that his eyelids had closed, or that he has leant his head into Castiel’s palm until he opens his eyes and meets Castiel’s, before Castiel leans in and presses his lips to Dean’s.

Castiel’s kiss is gentle, but far from hesitant, and Dean lets his eyes close again as he kisses him back, moving his hands to Castiel’s sides. Castiel seems encouraged by Dean’s more active participation and deepens the kiss, letting his head tip to the side, and his tongue slip into Dean’s mouth. Dean moans softly before he can stop himself, but the way Castiel presses his body closers lets him know he’s not fazed.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, when Castiel pulls away.

“Is this okay?” Castiel asks, swallowing.

“It’s more than okay,” Dean says with a smirk, before he leans back to kiss Castiel quickly again.


	7. The Restriction

**PART VII  
The Restriction**

For the most part of Castiel’s life – post the obliviousness of his childhood – fear had always been comfortable, because for most of Castiel’s life he has felt fear for one thing or another: Roman’s government, Order Keepers, OPs, his safety, his family’s safety, his friend’s safety, rioters, arsonists, and the list goes on, so for him to feel unafraid, usually made him feel uncomfortable. There’s always a part of him that knows the calm will always turn to a storm once more, and however long the calm lasts the storm lasts ten times longer.

And though this was a well-ingrained notion, (one of the only things Castiel could rely on), Dean had always been the only omission. There were times with Dean that felt like it might be the beginning of a life without fear, of course it always would be a life with fear, and Castiel would never place the responsibility of ending his fears on Dean’s shoulders, but they were the moments that kept Castiel going through the worst of it.

But of all the moments with Dean that made Castiel feel at ease and exempt from distress, none could compare to the moment when Castiel decided that the unpredictable nature of this life left no room for missed chances, and kissed Dean.

Gabriel had always mentioned that Castiel’s bravery was one of his most valued assets, and Dean stated the same often too, but Castiel himself never truly believed them until that moment when his lips pressed to Dean’s; not only for the fact that they would probably be shot if anyone undesired knew, but also that when he did, one of his most poignant fears was erased, because he finally admitted, in a rather unorthodox fashion, that he was attracted to Dean in a more than companionable way.

Castiel lay contentedly, his arm draped over Dean’s stomach where he slept peacefully next to him. Dean had pretty much fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, exhausted from the day, however Castiel was finding it extremely difficult for his mind to just shut off and let him sleep. He is happy just to lie there, knowing that Dean is okay with this new progression in their (already strange) relationship.

It’s pitch-black in room four, and because his hearing is more focused there is a constant white noise surrounding his thoughts, so when a loud rumbling noise from above them in the streets breaks the silence Castiel imagines it must be because of his heightened sense that it startles him so much, but obviously it’s loud enough to wake Dean, because his body jolts awake at the sound.

“What was that?” Dean mumbles, voice thick with interrupted sleep.

Castiel shrugs, before realising that dean can’t see him. “No idea, it sounded like it came from the street.”

“That was loud, right?” Dean asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Like, really loud, I’m not just hearin’ it that way because it woke me?”

“No, it was loud,” Castiel agrees.

Dean pushes himself out of the bed, and finds his jacket, before pulling it over his shoulders.

“You coming?” Dean asks, flicking the light on in the room.

Castiel blinks uncomfortably as his eyes adjust to the light, before he nods.

When they get out into the bar it seems they aren’t the only ones to have heard the noise outside.

“Hey boys,” Ellen says, when she notices them walking quickly towards the bar. “Heard the commotion too?”

“Yeah, hard to miss,” Dean replies, looking around at the Sanctuary Seekers, all poking their heads out to see what’s going on.

“Cas, says it sounded like it came from the street,” Dean tells Ellen.

“I wouldn’t know. It woke me, only thing I noticed about it was that it damn well startled me.”

“Yeah, me too, but I trust Cas, I think I’ll go up and check, if you’ll let me have the key?”

“I don’t know if you should, it sounded loud enough to be a bomb, it could be dangerous,” Ellen reasons.

Dean nods, “it might not be though, and if it was then someone could be hurt.”

Ellen sighs heavily, before she heads back to her room and then returns with the keys in her palm.

“Thanks,” Dean says, and Ellen only smiles solemnly in response, as he takes the keys.

Castiel follows Dean up the stairs, a little anxious to see whatever has happened outside. As soon as they open the door to the street the cold bite of the night air is on them, but there is also the smell of strong smoke, so pungent that it is catching at the back of Castiel’s throat, and by the way Dean coughs, he’s struggling too.

There is smoke coming from just down the street, near the Proles market. With the streetlights either dead, or struggling in vain to flicker back to life, the moon is their only light source towards the clearly damaged area.

“Should have grabbed a gun,” Dean mumbles.

“A gun?” Castiel mimics, a little shocked.

“Yeah, a gun,” Dean replies.

“Oh,” Cas gripes, like grabbing a gun is the most typical thing in the world.

They keep heading towards the market, before they come to the beginnings of a clearing, a clearing that didn’t used to be a clearing, but rather the Prole market.

“Fuck, I suppose Ellen was right,” Castiel says, looking around warily as bits of cement and brick still fall from buildings. “I’m surprised there aren’t more people around here.

“Don’t be, they just came to the same conclusion Ellen did and didn’t want to risk being bombed, or aren’t stupid enough to come out here,” Dean smirks, like this situation is even remotely warranting of a smirk.

Castiel goes to exaggeratedly roll his eyes, before he hears a voice from somewhere further in the rubble.

“Dean, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That voice.”

Dean looks at Castiel, concern in his eyes and shaking his head.

“I think I know where it came from.”

“Lead the way,” Dean says.

Castiel moves to where he heard the voice, being careful not to step anywhere that looks precarious.

“Help would be nice!” Castiel hears the voice clearer now; it’s a mans voice, and there’s a very slight southern lilt to his words, but whoever it is, he’s clearly struggling, whether it’s from smoke damage or physical damage is unclear.

“This way,” Castiel ushers Dean.

They find the man slumped against a remaining brick wall. He’s clutching his side and clearly looks thankful to see them.

“Oh thank god,” he sighs. “You guys think you could help a brother out here?”

Dean’s already heading towards the man, and Castiel follows shortly in tow.

“What’s happened here, are you hurt?” Dean asks.

“Artillery,” the man says, “the damage isn’t big enough for a bomb. I got hit by some shrapnel I think, here on my side.”

Castiel can’t believe how well the man is holding up especially when he lifts his hand to reveal his bloodied shirt and clear-as-day metal splinters jutting unpleasantly from his side.

“Whoa, okay then, we gotta get you to the roadhouse buddy. What’s your name? You wanna tell us what you were doing here this late?”

“The names Garth, I was with a group of rioters, not sure where they are now, we kind of split when we started tearing down propaganda.”

“You’re a rioter? I thought the riots ended,” Castiel says.

“They did for a little while there, but I don’t think we ever stopped believing in what we were doing, and now with these stories emerging of anti-Roman martyrs we’ve been somewhat inspired to start taking a stand again.”

“Oh good,” Dean sighs, and Castiel can only imagine that he’s thinking of the risks that came with rioters last time. “Come on we gotta get you out of here, you won’t survive very long with that shrapnel. Can you walk?”

“Don’t think so,” Garth replies, trying to pull himself up before making a noise of pain and receding back to the ground.

“Is that a gun?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, take it, s’not like I can use it.”

“Cas, can you carry him?”

Castiel nods.

Garth is easy enough to pick up; there isn’t much weight to him at all. Dean is checking the gun’s clip before he cocks it and gestures for Castiel to follow him back to the roadhouse.

Ellen is, needless to say, a bit taken aback when Dean swipes all of the items off one of the long tables in the bar, and Castiel lays a half delirious person onto it.

“He’s got shrapnel splinters, he needs them removed.”

“Right, I’ll get what I need,” Ellen says.

“Cas can help,” Dean tells Ellen.

Castiel can only claim to have a very mediocre understanding of medicine and healing, but he’s great at biology and he once spent a month learning from a doctor during work experience, so he is happy to help Ellen remove the shrapnel, and hopefully save Garth’s life.

“So you were rioting tonight, were you?” Dean asks, bringing Garth back to somewhat of an attention.

“Yeah, we were just testing the OPs, defacing government property, a couple of the others are into arson, but not me, I’m in it for the classic rebelling.”

Castiel is astonished by the enthusiasm of this guy, considering his current condition, and by the looks of Dean’s expression, so is he.

“I’m telling you guys, before it was hit by artillery, that part of town was well and truly Garthed.”

Castiel and Dean give each other the same utterly bemused looks following the interesting expression, but before either of them can ask, Ellen is back in the room with a bowl of water, cloth and various utensils to remove the shrapnel.

Garth refuses the twisted cloth Ellen offers him to bite on, with a look of stoic determination – which may have made Castiel laugh in any other situation, though it doesn’t stop Dean from a small huff of a laugh. Castiel watches Ellen remove the shrapnel, with such practiced ease that it makes him wonder how often she’s had to do this kind of thing before. Castiel helps when he’s asked, and when he can – usually stopping blood flow with cotton, or stitching a wound when it’s large enough.

When it’s done, Dean looks utterly relieved.

“Can you move?” Castiel asks Garth.

Garth pulls himself up and off of the table.

“I’d take that as a ‘yes’, Cas,” Dean says, smiling over at him.

Castiel smiles back.

“There’s still rooms available if you need a place to stay for the night,” Ellen offers Garth.

“That would be nice, thank you ma’am.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And thank you all for helping me, you’re good people,” Garth says, he smiles at Castiel, Dean and Ellen, before bidding them goodnight.

“You boys head to bed, you’ve done good tonight,” Ellen says, as she cleans away the items used to help Garth.

Both Castiel and Dean smile, before heading back to room four. They both remove their jackets and stretch out tired limbs.

Dean crosses the floor to Castiel and wraps his arms around his waist holding him tight, and Castiel is only happy to receive and relay. Dean gives Castiel a brief kiss. This is something he can get used to.

“Let’s get some sleep.”

Castiel doesn’t protest, and within moments of lying down he finally finds sleep.

Garth is still at the Roadhouse in the morning, and is still as enthusiastic as he was last night, Castiel notes. He’s talking amongst some of the other Proles in the bar, most likely about the Romans.

Dean looks tired, and Castiel thinks he sees Dean huff out a breath of dismay as he notices Garth at the bar.

“Hey! Hey, there you guys are!”

Castiel and Dean give each other looks, before walking across the bar towards Garth.

“I never really got to thank you guys properly for, you know, saving my life, so thanks, I’m in your debt.”

“That’s not necessary,” Castiel says, with gesture of his hand.

“So, how you feeling today, Garth?” Dean asks, moving the conversation away from the topic of debt.

“Good, yeah, I think I’ll be heading back to my group, working out some new moves, you know plans of attack,” he replies, with a chuckle.

“Okay. Good, that’s good.” Dean smiles. “Well, it was nice to meet you, and I hope you meet your group safely, me and Cas here are heading home.”

“It was nice to meet you too Cas and…”

“Dean.”

“Cas and Dean. Hope to see you guys again.”

“Yeah, you too buddy,” Dean says, before giving a small wave goodbye.

As Castiel opens the door onto the street again, the first thing he notices is the lingering smell of the smoke from last night, and then he notices the OPs everywhere. Dean pushes Castiel back against the wall, as patrolling OPs cross the rubble-covered road, missing the two teens. They silently close the door to Harvelle’s and walk towards Castiel’s home, as nonchalantly as possible. 

It’s not surprising to Castiel, as the next few weeks pass, that the Order Keeper and Preserver presence is multiplying around the streets, it’s like the Roman’s are giving uniforms and weapons to every Bourgeois who walks through their door. The news becomes endless reports about the ‘needless’, ‘superfluous’ brutality and vandalism of the rioters. Though it seems, despite their best efforts, whatever the Roman’s do to try and prevent rioting isn’t working, and they’re beginning to realise that they’re a much bigger threat than originally perceived.

So on and on the Roman’s attempts go. More fences, more propaganda, more weapons, more threats, and more bullshit being shoved down children’s throats at Saints of the Sacred Heart and every other school in the US. Castiel finds it becoming increasingly more of a struggle to sit through any of his classes; even in bio the teachers are finding ways to bring up the Romans and their ‘greatness’.

There is no corner of Saints of the Sacred Heart that doesn’t have an OP standing guard. Just when Castiel thinks he’s escaped the ongoing onslaught of Roman praise, for recess, or for lunch break, he comes face to face with a black masked creature of a man even more brainwashed than he is.

Castiel spends most of his breaks at school with Dean, Charlie, Benny, Jo, and Ash, their noses all stuck in Roman approved readings, not actually reading a damn word, but trying to convince the teachers and OPs that surrounded them that they’re doing what they’re meant to be doing. Long gone are the days of jumping the fence at the back of the school, or even just sitting behind the crappy refuge buildings and venting about their shit situation. 

So although the rioters aren’t great, Castiel’s kind of glad they’re back. He’s so over the isolation that the Roman Government’s actions have caused that he’s about ready to join them. Of course he won’t – he can’t – there’s far too much violence towards innocent Bourgeois, and he wouldn’t be able to go back to school if he rioted; after all there are cameras and OPs everywhere it’s not like rioters are anonymous.

Unfortunately, it seems, the Roman’s aren’t backing down anytime soon. The rioting gradually progresses back to the way it was, and then it gets worse, and in stronger numbers, until Castiel’s nights are once again filled with yelling, sounds of explosions off in the near distance, and fear – comfortable, habitual fear. This is just how his life is.


End file.
